weeping-treee

[weeping-treee]

Yes, a second repost. Because I’m OBSESSED🫠

Turning Page | Masterlist

You work at the library Simon and his daughter frequent.

single dad! alpha Simon Riley x librarian! omega Reader

please heed tags before each chapter

──────────────

⤷ Fancy Nancy

⤷ Corduroy

⤷ Rainbow Fish

⤷ Angelina Ballerina

⤷ Rainbow Fish & 2

⤷ The Giving Tree

⤷ The Very Hungry Caterpillar

⤷ A Bad Case Of The Stripes

⤷ chapter 9

ao3 | main masterlist | Clementine

[weeping-treee]

can i just say that it’s 06:18 right now where i am and i’ve been up reading ghost fics since about 4 and i stumbled across your series and i fell IN LOVE, no joke, no exaggeration whatsoever. your writing is IMMACULATE and INCREDIBLE and you’re literally gifted. that’s all i needed to say and i hope you have an amazing day omg ♥️♥️♥️😭

Awwwhh omg. I love you, thank you so fucking much😭🩵🩵

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 16

Simon knows you. Knows you're the one.

MDNI | cw: period pain; masturbation during the cycle.

All parts here

2,117 words

"Talk to me. Tell me what I can do for you, love."

"Getting that heating pad plugged in would be nice."

He gets up to plug it in, then returns to the couch with a soft grunt, setting the heating pad against your lower stomach with expert care��like it’s an operation he refuses to botch.

You hiss as the warmth settles against your skin, curling in on instinct. Your limbs are heavy, your body pulsing with that dull ache you’ve known your whole life. But this time, there’s comfort. A presence.

He tucks himself behind you, pulling you gently against his chest. His bare arms wrap around you, one hand rubbing slow, careful circles over your belly.

“Should’ve told me last night,” he mumbles against your hair. “Could’ve kept you curled up on me instead of the damn mattress.”

You hum, voice muffled in the blanket. “Didn’t wanna ruin the vibe.”

“You never ruin anything,” he says simply. “Least of all my night.”

You let out a slow breath, letting yourself melt into him. “You’re soft today.”

“M’always soft with you.” He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder, voice low and quiet. “Let me be, yeah?”

There’s a long silence. Comfortable. The kind of quiet where you feel held—not just physically, but in every way that matters.

His hand still rubs slow and steady, soothing your tense muscles, grounding you. You can feel his heartbeat against your spine. Steady. Safe.

“You still hurtin’?” he asks, low.

You nod against his chest.

“Bad?”

“Manageable.”

He grunts. “Wish I could take it off you.”

“You’d die immediately.”

“I’d die honorably,” he jokes, and you snort. “But I’d do it. For you.”

You twist just enough to glance up at him. His face is close—eyes soft, hair tousled, stubble catching the light.

“I know,” you whisper.

Your fingers find the edge of his flannel, curling into it like it anchors you.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, brushing a knuckle over your jaw. “When you feel better… I’m not lettin’ you out of bed.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Both.”

His lips press to your temple again. And you swear, despite the cramps and fatigue, your heart finds a way to flutter.

“Get some rest, sweetheart. M’not goin’ anywhere.”

"M'not tired..." you say, turning to kiss him. Soft, deliberate, saying what you want without words.

He groans softly against your lips, kissing you back with a beat of hesitation.

You whine softly as a cramp hits you. "Hurts," you mumble, voice heavy with sleep and neediness.

Simon stills and moves the heating pad, replacing it with his palm. Rubbing slow circles over your lower abdomen. The pressure helps. The warmth helps.

But it's still not enough.

"Need more," you whisper softly.

His chest rises against your side. "Tell me what you need, baby."

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. But because it’s embarrassing—to want like this. To feel so sensitive, so undone by your own body. And to ache for him to fix it. With his hands. With his warmth. With everything he is.

"Just wanna feel good," you murmur, burying your face into his neck. "Can't explain it. Just... touch me, please."

Simon presses a kiss to your temple. No hesitation. No teasing.

"I've got you."

His hands travel lower. Not rushed. Just gentle. He moves under your shirt, tracing soft, grounding circles over your stomach and then lets his hand roam lower, over your hips, between your thighs. Over your underwear, not pushing, not demanding—just comforting.

"Like this?"

You nod quickly, breath catching. Your thighs relax under his palm like they've been waiting for this contact from him all day.

"Feels good," you whisper.

He hums, lips brushing your temple. "That's what I wanted to hear."

He keeps going, patient and unhurried—rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your clothed clit. The pressure you need. The rhythm. The intimacy. You're not even sure it’s fully sexual—it just feels safe. Like he's giving your body permission to let go. To breathe.

"You're so warm," you murmur, holding his bicep tighter. "Just wanna melt into this. Into you."

"Then do it," he says softly, voice low and rough. "You don't have to do anything else. Relax. I've got you."

You relax slowly in his arms.

"More..." you whisper. "Please."

"Of course, sweetheart." His fingers press firmer, slow circles that draw another soft moan from your lips.

Your hips twitch at the steady pressure of his fingers, your thighs clenching around his hand, and still—it’s not fully about chasing relief.

It’s about feeling wanted in a body that’s a mess. That’s been aching all morning. It’s about being touched like you're something to be soothed, not solved. Not fixed.

Simon leans in closer, lips pressing against your jaw. Whispering soft reassurances in your ear.

"You're doin' so good for me," voice low and rough, like it’s taking everything in him to be soft for you.

Your eyes flutter closed as you breathe through another wave of warmth, low in your belly. It builds slower than usual, but it’s steady. Trusting. Like your body knows this is safe.

"Feels so good," you whisper, barely audible. "Please, don't stop."

"I won't. Not ever." His fingers shift in a way that makes your toes curl. "Just let go, love. S'alright. I've got you."

You do.

You come with a soft, aching moan—quiet, warm, your whole body curling into his. Not sharp. Not loud. It's gentle, rolling through you like the first breath after pain. Like unclenching a fist you didn’t know you were holding.

The second it passes, you’re crying.

Just a little.

Tears sting the corners of your eyes and slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. Not from sadness. Not from pain. But from relief. From tenderness. From the unbearable ache of being held and cared for this well.

Simon notices immediately.

"Hey," he whispers, voice soft and steady. "You okay?"

You nod, breath shaking. "Yeah. I'm okay. I just—fuck, I needed that."

His hand doesn’t move right away. Just stays there, keeping you grounded, covered. His other hand comes up to brush tears from your cheeks, feather-light.

"You don’t need to say anything. Thank me." He kisses your temple. "You needed care. That’s not a crime, love."

You let out a soft sob-laugh and bury your face in his neck. His hand finally slips away and around you. Tightening around you as he shifts to lift you up.

He carries you to the bedroom and sets you down softly, climbing in behind you and holding you close to his chest. His hand falls back to your lower abdomen, pressing softly against it.

"Sleep now," he murmurs, thumb brushing softly against your stomach. "M'not going anywhere."

"I know," you whisper, eyes already falling shut. "That's the best part."

You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep.

An hour. Maybe two.

The cramps have dulled to a soft throb, your limbs heavy, your cheek pressed against warm cotton. Simon hasn’t moved. He’s still behind you, solid as stone, his arm curled around your waist. His hand is still resting over your lower belly, protective and warm.

But his eyes are open.

He’s not sleeping.

He watches the way you curl in closer when the pain shifts. The way your fingers twitch. The soft sound you make when your body tenses, then relaxes again.

He wishes he could take it all from you.

Hell, he’d trade places in a heartbeat. He’s been shot, burned, beaten—but watching you hurt like this, quiet and trying not to be a burden? It guts him.

And still, you didn’t tell him. Not last night. Not this morning. You just smiled through it. Gritted your teeth.

Because you’re strong.

Because you’ve always handled things on your own.

Because you don’t expect anyone to stay.

That last one gets him the most.

His eyes drop to your hand, resting over his.

He lifts it carefully, gently—as if he might wake you—then holds it in his palm. Stares at your fingers. At the shape of them. At the invisible thread tying his life to yours now.

Then he digs into his pocket and pulls the small box out. He slips the ring on.

Slow. Quiet. Like a vow whispered to himself.

The ring fits perfectly.

Of course it does.

Your dad gave it to him the day he arrived. Just a short exchange on the couch, a nod, a “she’s yours now” without saying the words.

Simon didn’t plan to do this today. Didn’t even really plan at all. But as soon as he saw it—your mother’s ring, sitting in that little box in his hand—something in him settled.

It was time.

You stir slightly in your sleep, brow furrowing as another wave of pain rolls through you.

He moves his hand to your belly again. Applies the right amount of pressure. Rubs gentle circles until your body melts back against his. Until you breathe easier.

And then he just stays like that.

Holding you. Grounded in you.

Heart louder than his thoughts.

Breath slow. Sure.

This is it.

There’s no going back.

And he doesn’t want to.

You’re his.

You’ve been his.

This just makes it known.

Forever starts quietly.

You shift slightly, stretching, and blink sleepily at the fading light bleeding through the curtains.

And then you see it.

Your hand—resting on his arm.

Your mother’s ring.

Glinting in the dusk light.

On your finger.

You blink again.

Not dreaming.

You sit up just a little, confused, eyes still heavy from sleep.

“Simon?” Your voice is soft. Raspy. “What is this?"

He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t even flinch.

He just opens his eyes, meets yours, and runs a thumb across the back of your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“It’s yours,” he says quietly.

“You—when—?”

“Your dad gave it to me. Said I had his approval,” he murmurs. “Saw the way your eyes sparkled after I told you I thought about it last night.”

You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.

He sits up a little, leaning on his elbow. His other hand gently turns your wrist, admiring the ring now sitting snug against your skin. The ring your mom wore for decades. The one your father kept safe, always—tucked away for someday.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Simon adds, voice quiet. “I’m not askin’.”

“You’re not?”

“No,” he says, brushing a finger down your cheek. “I’m tellin’ you.”

You let out a soft, choked laugh. “That so?”

“Mm.” He hums. “You’re it for me. I’m not goin’ anywhere. So… be mine.”

Simple. Sure. Like he’s stating gravity.

Like there was never any other outcome.

Your heart twists painfully in your chest. Your hands shake.

“You want to marry me,” you whisper.

“After one date—two… maybe three weeks…”

He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

“I know. It’s quick. Too quick, maybe.”

His thumb grazes the edge of your jaw, slow and reverent. He looks down at your hand again—at the ring glinting in the soft light—and his voice turns quieter. More thoughtful.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admits. “Not really. Didn’t think I’d ever get to. Thought people like me... don’t get things like this.”

He pauses.

Like the words are heavy. Like he’s never said them out loud before.

“But then you walked in, and it just—stopped makin’ sense to wait. You looked at me like I wasn’t broken. Like I was someone worth keepin’. And after everything... I didn’t want to waste time pretending I didn’t already know.”

You blink, eyes stinging again, throat tightening.

“Know what?”

He meets your eyes.

“That you’re it for me. You’re home. You make me feel like a man again—not a weapon. And I don’t wanna go another day without you knowin’ that.”

You’re silent. Stunned.

He laughs softly again. A little shaky this time.

“Christ, listen to me. Rambling like a fuckin’ idiot.”

“No—no, it’s not that,” you whisper, voice cracking. “It’s not. It’s just…”

You can’t even finish the thought. Because it’s everything.

Because he’s Simon Riley. And he’s here. Whole and real and entirely yours. Choosing you in the quiet, without ceremony or doubt.

Tears sting your eyes, all over again—but it’s different now. No pain. Just the unbearable joy of being wanted like this.

Claimed.

Chosen.

“Okay,” you say, voice cracking. “Yes.”

He exhales, just once—like he’s been holding that breath for a lifetime. Then he pulls you in, slow and deep, forehead to forehead.

No fireworks.

No crowd.

No fancy speech.

Just the two of you.

In bed.

After pain.

After love.

In the quiet where forever begins.

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais @simonexxx1 @readingmyobsessions

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 15

Simon's winning your father over. One day at a time.

(Part 16 coming sometime within 24 hours. Reblog, be ready lovies)

All parts here

2,681 words

Color Key: Mac- red | Price- orange | Text- purple

The weekend.

He's staying the weekend.

Simon runs a hand over his face in the bathroom after his shower.

You've settled your dad in the guest bedroom down the hall.

The questions never stop.

"You see a future with him?"

"Does he live here?"

"He treatin' you well?"

"Are you sure you want the life that comes with someone like him?"

You answer all without a beat.

Yes, yes, extremely well, and I can handle it.

"Can't say I hate him. At least he's not like your boyfriend in college. Stiff wind could blow that fucker over."

"Jesus, Dad," you say with a chuckle.

You bring him extra blankets and make sure he's settled in the room before heading to the door.

"If he hurts you, I'll kill him."

"I know, Dad. Goodnight."

"Night."

You head to your bedroom and are met with Simon, half-dressed.

You lean against the doorframe, your arms crossed—thinking nothing innocent. Not one bit. It's not your fault those sweats look so good on him.

He catches you looking and shakes his head.

"Don't look at me like that. Not tonight when your father is right down the hall."

"I didn't say anything." You walk up to him and wrap your arms around his hips, looking up with him those eyes you know he can't ignore.

"Fuckin hell, you'll be the death of me."

You walk him backwards to the bed and climb into his lap. Kissing him sinfully. His hands fly to your hips, kissing you back like his life depends on it.

You pull back and cup his face. "I love you."

"I know. I love you too, baby girl." He responds with a lazy smirk.

"Alright... so no sex... how about a good, ol' fashioned make out?"

He chuckles and leans in. Not even needing to say yes to that before he's pinned you to the bed.

You yelp into his mouth when your back hits the mattress, but you're grinning, breathless, already tugging him closer by the waistband of his sweats.

He settles between your legs, heavy and warm and everywhere. The kiss turns deeper. Slower. Tongue and teeth and lazy heat.

His hand roams up under your shirt, fingers tracing the dip of your waist like he’s learning you all over again.

"This what you meant by good ol' fashioned?" he murmurs against your lips, voice rough and amused.

"Mmhm," you hum, tilting your head for him to kiss your neck. "Thought it might burn some of that frustration off."

He huffs a laugh against your skin. "Not helping, sweetheart. You’re killin’ me."

But he doesn’t stop.

He kisses down your throat, open-mouthed and reverent, the kind that leaves your skin tingling. His hips roll forward—just once, just enough to feel him.

You gasp, clutching at his shoulders. “Simon…”

"Just makin’ out, right?" he teases, lips brushing your collarbone.

He moves like he could do this for hours—taste every inch of you, drink in every soft sound, every tug of your hands in his hair. Like kissing you is the only damn thing that matters in the world.

And the way he's looking at you—blown pupils, flushed cheeks, hair mussed from your touch—it’s a wonder you’re not combusting on the spot.

"Christ," he mutters. "You're dangerous."

You grin. “So are you.”

You push him off with a soft groan.

"The second my dads gone. It's game."

He chuckles and pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Definitely."

...

By morning, when the light filters through the curtains, the bed is cold. Empty.

You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

No sign of Simon.

Turns out, Simon Riley is trying his damndest to be the best man he can be for you. He got up at the crack of dawn. Googled how to barbecue and got it down. In a surge of helpful boyfriend energy, he's deciding to fix your front door. No more forcing the damn thing open.

So by the time your father strolls into the living room, coffee cup in hand, the door is off the hinges and leaned sideways against the wall.

The hinges scattered like war casualties.

And Simon crouched on the floor, shirtless, covered in sweat and sawdust, muttering under his breath about rusted screws and “this bloody thing falling apart.”

MacMillan pauses, sipping his coffee.

“You know,” he says casually, “I was just gonna ask if you were handy.”

Simon glances up, squints against the morning sun, and gives a lopsided, sheepish smile.

“Thought I’d earn some extra points.”

“Points?” your dad echoes. “What is this, a bloody job interview?”

“Feels like it,” Simon mutters, standing and wiping his hands on a rag.

And despite himself, your dad laughs.

You follow the laugh and stand in the doorway of the living room, half-asleep and squinting through the bright morning light.

Your dad chuckles and takes a sip of his coffee, eyes scanning the scattered tools.

"You're using the wrong bit for that hinge."

Simon raises a brow. "Am I?"

"Mhm. Let me grab mine. Got a set in the truck."

He walks off like it's nothing, like it's normal, and you just stand in the doorway blinking.

Simon shrugs at you, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp from sweat.

"Did that just happen, or am I dreaming?" You rub your head and walk over to Simon, sleepily resting your head on his chest.

He chuckles and rubs your back.

"Wasn't expecting him to offer help."

"That's actually a good sign..." you murmur into his chest.

Minutes later, they’re both on their knees in front of the door frame, cussing and screwing and arguing over torque like two dads fixing a fence.

You hover awkwardly nearby, a little stunned, a little amused.

“You serve under Price then?” MacMillan asks casually, eyes focused on the hinge.

“Yeah. For a while now.”

“Good man. Tough. Fair. Got a brain on him.”

“More than one, I think,” Simon says, and they both snort.

A beat passes. MacMillan glances over.

“What were you before the Task Force?”

Simon wipes his hand on a rag. Doesn’t look up.

“British Special Air Service. Some personal operations."

Your dad pauses. Gives a subtle nod. That military kind of nod—sharp and silent, carrying everything that doesn’t need to be said out loud.

“I trained boys from the SAS. Good lads.”

“Most of ‘em don't make it.” Simon’s voice is quiet.

“Yeah,” your dad says, “that tracks.”

The air stills.

But it’s not heavy.

It’s... understanding.

The kind of mutual ache that lives in silence between men who’ve seen the same shit and walked out of it limping.

MacMillan pats the doorframe. “Well. Hinge is on. Still crooked, but better than it was. Won't need to force the damn thing open anymore.”

Simon stands, stretches his back. “Appreciate the assist.”

Your dad raises an eyebrow. “You wanna impress me, Riley?”

Simon straightens. “Always.”

“Don’t screw things up with her.”

He glances over at you—watching from the hall, arms crossed, lips twitching like you’re trying not to smile.

And Simon just nods.

“I won’t.”

You're not a morning person on your days off, so you sit on the couch, pulling a blanket over you as you text Price.

"SOS. Come for lunch and dinner before Dad recruits Simon."

You take a shower before lunch. Price is there by the time you walk out, hair wet and pulled back in a bun.

You can get used to this. Three of the most important men in your life, sat at your kitchen table chatting over beer.

MacMillan leans back in his chair, mid-story, gesturing with the neck of his bottle.

“—So I told the lad, ‘You can’t just slack on the minefield and hope it clears itself,’ and you know the bastard did it anyways.”

Price laughs loud, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I remember that op! Was that in Ukraine or—?”

“—Bosnia,” MacMillan says, nodding.

Simon, sitting between them, looks a little overwhelmed—but he's smiling. Comfortable. Content. Like he belongs there.

You lean against the doorframe, watching them for a moment.

You could get used to this.

The laughter, the calm, the ridiculous war stories over lunch.

The way Simon looks at home.

The way your dad glances at him now—not with suspicion, but with something closer to acceptance.

“There she is,” Price greets you with a grin. “Sleeping Beauty joins the council.”

You roll your eyes and head toward the fridge. “Council of Cryptids, more like.”

Simon chuckles. “Oi.”

You cross the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out stuff for lunch.

Simon doesn't hesitate to help, taking the chicken from you and setting it on the counter. You two work together without missing a beat—something you’ve both gotten used to over the last week. Roasted chicken and salad are done before the hour’s finished.

Price leans back in his chair, fork in hand, gesturing toward Simon with a grin.

“Can’t believe it. Ghost, of all people—cooking chicken, fixing doors, playing house.”

Simon gives him a look. “You want lunch or a punch in the throat, mate?”

MacMillan chuckles. "Don't listen to him. He can cook and handle being the man of the house. Rare breed, that one."

You smile. Already knowing your dad approves of him.

“Dedication,” Price says, mock-sincere. “That’s love. Or desperation. It's a toss-up.”

Simon deadpans, “Both.”

They laugh, and you can’t help but grin. The vibe is… weirdly perfect. Like all the jagged edges of your life have slotted into place around this kitchen table.

Your dad nudges his beer bottle toward Simon. “So. What’s the endgame here?”

Simon raises an eyebrow.

“With her,” MacMillan clarifies. “You sticking around? Playing house long-term?”

You freeze mid-chew.

Simon, without missing a beat, shrugs a little and says:

“If she’ll have me, yeah.”

You look up, surprised. He’s not even looking at you—he says it like it’s just truth. Plain and simple.

And it makes your chest ache in the best way.

Price whistles. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard from you, mate.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

...

You peek out the back window and nearly choke on your drink.

Simon is standing over your new grill—shirt half-untucked, brows furrowed, tongs in hand like they’re a weapon.

There’s a beer bottle balanced on the railing and a printed recipe sheet taped to the side of the grill.

“Is he…” you start.

“Following a step-by-step?” Price finishes, craning his neck to see.

“Bloody hell,” MacMillan mutters, amused. “He’s really going for it.”

You step outside just as Simon carefully flips one of the steaks, expression focused like it’s a bomb he’s defusing.

“I don’t wanna jinx it,” he says when he notices you, “but I think this might actually be edible.”

You walk over, arms crossed, watching him with a smirk. “Is that... homemade rosemary butter for basting?”

“You bet your sweet arse it is.”

“Look at you. Grill-master Ghost.”

He flicks his eyes to you—smirking, cocky in that quiet Simon Riley way. “Told you I was a fast learner.”

The smell is insane. Perfect char. Sizzle. He even grilled the damn asparagus.

Price and your dad follow you out. Sitting on the porch chairs as if they're watching a show.

“I’m scared,” Price admits, sipping his beer. “This might be the most domestic I’ve ever seen him.”

MacMillan eyes the grill, then Simon. “If you plate that well, I might just let you marry her.”

Simon doesn’t even flinch.

“Already planning on it.”

You choke and nearly drop your beer.

Hours later. Bellies full. Plates cleaned. The kitchen is full of beer bottles and leftover steak. Laughter still echoes from the back room where your dad and Price are locked in some story-swapping contest.

You and Simon slip out onto the porch, barefoot and quiet, each holding a mug of tea.

He settles beside you on the bench, tucking you into his side like it’s second nature.

The cicadas hum, stars peek through the indigo sky.

“Did I do alright?” he asks, voice low. Honest.

You blink up at him, heart stupid-full. “Simon. You grilled a perfect steak. You fixed the door. You made my dad laugh. You passed the final boss.”

He huffs a laugh, presses a kiss to your temple. “S’nice. Having a normal day.”

“We could do more of them.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, resting your head on his shoulder.

“You really looked like you belonged here today.”

He goes quiet for a second. Then:

“Felt like I did.”

"You do."

A beat of silence passes before you look up at him.

"Did you mean what you said earlier? You're plannin' on it? Marrying me?"

Simon chuckles, kissing your forehead. "I've thought about it."

Neither of you say anything more. You can't, not when the silence is saying everything for you.

Price—too tipsy to drive home—crashes on your couch. Already passed out and snoring by the time you guys are back inside.

Snoring comes from the guest room too.

Settling into bed, you feel that monthly sharp pain in your stomach. Groaning and melting into your bed. Already asleep by the time Simon exits the shower.

...

You wake to that same dull ache low in your stomach.

It rolls through you in slow, pulsing waves—deep and mean. You curl in a little tighter, hoping it’ll pass.

Spoiler: it doesn’t.

Your body’s already dragging, limbs heavy with fatigue and pain, but you push yourself up anyway. Today’s the day your dad and Price head out, and you will not be the girl who lets her uterus ruin a perfectly good farewell.

You pad into the bathroom, splash water on your face, and wince when another cramp twists through your gut.

Breathe. Smile. Act normal.

By the time you make it into the kitchen, Simon’s already up—mug in hand, leaning against the counter. He’s in one of his old flannel shirts. Barefoot. Soft around the eyes.

He takes one look at you and immediately straightens.

“You alright, love?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Simon narrows his eyes—he knows you. Knows your tells. The way your hand rests a little too long on the counter. The subtle way you press your thigh against the edge for pressure.

He doesn’t say anything, but you know he knows.

MacMillan and Price are already half-packed, duffel bags by the door. Your dad gives you a one-armed hug, mug of coffee still in his other hand.

“You take care of yourself, alright?”

“I always do, Dad.”

He gives you that dad-look like he sees through everything—but doesn’t call you out. Just pats your shoulder, eyes shifting to Simon.

“And you—”

“I know,” Simon says, cutting him off with a tired smile. “I’ll take care of her.”

“Damn right you will.”

Price slings his bag over his shoulder and leans in to kiss your cheek. “Thanks for the bed. And the entertainment.”

You chuckle, weakly. “Next time you’re both sleeping in the barn.”

He grins and heads for the door. Your dad follows.

You wave them off with a smile and close the door as their trucks pull away.

The second it clicks shut behind you, your shoulders slump.

Simon’s already there, wrapping an arm around your waist. “C’mon.”

“M’fine,” you mumble.

“You're not. Let me take care of you.”

He leads you gently to the couch and tucks the blanket over you before disappearing down the hall. Comes back with a heating pad, a glass of water, and pain meds.

He kneels beside the couch, brushing your hair back with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten.

“Should’ve said something earlier,” he murmurs. “Could’ve let me hold you all night.”

You shrug, eyes already burning.

“Didn’t wanna ruin the moment.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“You’re never a burden. Never.”

You exhale, finally letting yourself sink into the cushions, into him.

And for once, it feels okay to not be okay.

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais @simonexxx1

[weeping-treee]

Part 15 AND 16 is coming soon. I haven’t forgotten, just been busy and in Spain without the S💔😭😂

[weeping-treee]

talked to a girl ALL night long. Literally- 11 hours

(It’s 11:30am and it just ended)

Successful flirting on my end🤭

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 14

Simon loves you. So goddamn much

All parts here

2,403 words

(Pictures aren't mine. Gotta love Pinterest.)

(And this is basically an AU that I made up. Still set in, and a little before MW 2019, so eat up bitches<3)

“We still gotta go shoppin’, love,” he murmurs against your hair.

You chuckle, rubbing his back softly. “Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

He huffs. “I’ll deal with that attitude later. C’mon, go get dressed.” He pulls away and turns you toward the bedroom.

You roll your eyes and start walking, but before you disappear around the corner, you throw one last thing over your shoulder—just to make his breath catch.

“You should move in. Just sayin’.”

He stops dead in his tracks, staring at the spot where he last saw you—like you’d just said the most beautifully absurd thing in the world. His legs move before his brain does, following after you without hesitation.

And when he reaches your bedroom, you’re half-dressed, slipping on one of his shirts like you own it.

Like you own him.

Which—let’s face it—you do.

He stands there, stunned. Speechless. Like maybe he didn’t hear you right. Until the words tumble out in a single, breathless rush:

“What did you just say?”

“I said, you should move in,” you repeat, more casual now. “You’re basically living here anyway. Maybe I don’t want it to end when you go back to work.”

You finish buttoning your jeans and glance up at him. The dumbfounded look on his face makes you chuckle.

“Is it too fast? Do you not want to? I just thought it’d be better than those old beds on base—”

“No.” His voice is soft. Immediate. “It’s just unexpected, is all.”

He steps closer, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Do you want that? Me to move in?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around him. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want it, Si.”

"Guess I'm movin' in then." He kisses your head, but you squeeze him so hard it steals his breath.

"Jesus, small but fuckin' mighty." He chuckles.

"C'mon then. Shopping time." You release and head out of the room with a new light about you.

He shakes his head and follows after you, rubbing his ribs from your tiny arms.

The drive to the markets is comfortable and quiet. Simon fills the silence with questions about your dad and small squeezes to your thigh as he drives.

"What should we make him for dinner?" He glances at you for a second before focusing back on the road.

"He likes steak. Typical man. Happy with whatever is hot and edible. Like you."

He laughs. "You sayin' I'm easy to please?"

"In certain aspects of life. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. So you're doing good thinking about how to please my dad with dinner."

He hums, squeezing your thigh once more.

"I don't have a grill though." You murmur, pulling out your phone to look for one.

"I've got it. Don't you worry sweetheart." He pats your thigh before parking.

You reach into the glove compartment and pull out a black surgical mask, handing it to him. "Here."

He smiles softly at how much you know him before securing it on his face.

You both walk to and through markets, buying small things and necessities for dinner tomorrow, and groceries for the week. You pout every time Simon insists on paying. Your final straw is the £285 wood pellet grill you had picked out.

"Simon, you've spent enough. Let me at least pay for something."

He doesn't even respond. Just chuckles and takes the bags you're holding from you AND wheels the buggy holding the grill box out of the market.

You hate it. You hate how he's being such a goddamn man. How his forearms flex beneath the weight of the grocery bags. Jesus Christ, you're done for. No more independent woman here. Just an utterly ruined girlfriend.

While he packs the car up you point out a store you wanna go to, alone. He says no at first—not wanting you to go by yourself, but you lie and say it’s some girly store and tell him to wait in the car. Which isn’t a complete lie—it’s a jewelry store, for fuck’s sake.

You stride in with one thing on your mind. Ownership. Whether its of you or of him. Something.

You browse before your eyes land on the necklaces. There are the name ones, but your eyes land on the initials. Knowing Simon would like to keep your name out of things if a situation would arise that needed anonymity.

You pick out two silver chains,—one with an "S" on it for you, and another with your initial on it for him. It's subtle, yet that's the best part. He's all about practicality with low visibility. He could put your initial right on the chain with his dog tags, and you'd always be right next to his heart. You obviously buy them both immediately.

You get the little bag to carry them in and walk to the car as if nothing happened.

"What's in the bag, love?"

"A surprise for when we're home."

He raises a brow but doesn't question it, just puts the car in drive and drives home. His home. Your home.

He brings all the groceries in, and insists on building the grill alone. Which gives you the perfect chance to take the little initial charm and slide it onto his dog tag chain. It rests perfectly right over the tags. Small. Subtle. But meaningful nonetheless. You put yours on and wait for him to notice.

Which does take hours, since he's out on the back patio, cussing out the instructions for being so damn stupid. You call him in for dinner, telling him to take a break.

He enters the kitchen and hugs you from behind. He sighs and you feel the stress drain from him as he holds you.

"Hungry?" You ask, rubbing his hand on your abdomen.

"Fuckin' starving, love." He kisses your head before plopping down in his spot at the table.

You bring him a plate and set it down, taking his hand and putting his chain in it. His brows furrow as he looks at his dog tags. "What's this about?" He starts before you see the realization when he turns them over. "You didn't..."

A pause.

Then he huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh—one of those rare ones, the kind that barely escapes his chest but hits you like a sledgehammer.

“You’re serious?”

Your smile falters for a second. “You don’t like it?”

Simon blinks. “Don’t like it?” he repeats, like the words offend him.

Then he’s up—just like that—pushing his chair back with a scrape, grabbing your hand, and tugging you gently but firmly into his space.

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. One hand slides to the back of your neck. The other curls protectively around your side, like he’s shielding something fragile.

His forehead drops to yours.

“I fuckin’ love it, sweetheart.”

You barely have time to breathe before he kisses you.

It’s not hungry. Not rushed. Just firm and slow and steady—like he’s pouring everything he doesn’t know how to say into that single moment.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his hand over the chain at your chest.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Everyone’ll know.”

“You’ve always been mine,” you whisper back. “This just makes it obvious.”

He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your head before releasing you. “We better eat before we get all fuckin’ sentimental.”

You shake your head as you grab your plate and sit beside him. Dinner is filled with quiet conversation and casual touches—his knee brushing yours under the table, fingers grazing your wrist in passing—until the food is gone.

You stand, collecting the plates.

“I’ll wash up and come help you outside in a minute, okay?”

He nods, but doesn’t move.

Both of you freeze at the sudden knock at the door.

You glance at him. He glances at you.

You’re the first to move, padding toward the entry with Simon following behind, shoulders tense.

You open the door—and his heart drops while yours leaps out of your chest.

Your Dad.

MacMillan.

“Dad!” you exclaim, throwing your arms around him.

He hugs you back with a chuckle.

You huff softly. “You’re early! You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

“Thought I’d surprise you,” he replies, ruffling your hair. “Figured I’d catch him off guard. Make sure he’s treatin’ my little girl right.”

He locks eyes with Simon.

“Dad, of course he is. But I had things planned! We were gonna make dinner, I haven’t even baked anything yet—”

“Enough of that. It’s just me. Don’t need dinner or dessert. A cold one and a sit-down with this one’ll do just fine.”

You let him in, feeling Simon practically vibrating beside you with restrained nerves.

“Simon Riley,” your dad says, appraising him with a veteran’s stare. “The Ghost. I’ve heard great things.”

“Thank you, sir. Pleasure to meet you.” Simon offers his hand, firm and steady despite the storm inside.

Your father takes it without hesitation—a quick, tight handshake with weight behind it.

Then you break the tension, practically herding them like a sheepdog.

“Alright—c’mon. Beers. Couch. Let’s go.”

You set the beers down on the coffee table—one for you, one for your dad, and one for Simon, who still hasn’t sat down.

MacMillan takes his with a nod, easing into the chair near the couch like it’s a briefing room chair. The man has presence, even when relaxed—calm, controlled, observant.

Simon finally lowers himself onto the far end of the couch next to you, careful, composed. His posture straight, back rigid. Like he’s about to be debriefed after a mission gone sideways.

You perch between them, leaning forward to pop the cap off your own bottle. But Simon, grabs it first and does it for you, handing it to you before opening his own.

Silence stretches.

MacMillan studies Simon over the rim of his beer. “So,” he says finally, voice low and dry, “you’re the one.”

Simon doesn’t flinch. “I suppose I am.”

“And what exactly are your intentions with my daughter?”

You turn, shooting your dad a look. “Really? That’s the opening?”

He ignores you. Never looks away from Simon.

Simon doesn’t blink. “To be worthy of her. To be worthy of a future with her. Every day I’m lucky enough to be around.”

That makes MacMillan’s brow rise—just a fraction. But the corner of his mouth twitches, too. Approval? Maybe.

“You know what she does when you’re not around?” he asks, cracking his neck as he leans back. “She talks about you. Tells me stories. Some funny. Some painful.”

Simon swallows but nods. “I know.”

“And you? You talk about her to anyone?” MacMillan asks pointedly.

Simon hesitates. “No, sir.”

Your dad gives a short nod. “Smart man.”

You look between them like you’re watching a fencing match. Neither giving ground. And somehow, it’s thrilling.

MacMillan sips his beer again, eyes still fixed on Simon. “I’ve trained a lot of men. Lost a lot of them, too. But you—I’ve heard your name for years. Hell, Laswell called you a stubborn bastard. Price called you a bloody miracle.”

Simon doesn’t respond. He’s listening. Processing.

“But none of that means shit,” your dad continues, “if you hurt her.”

You sigh, "Jesus, Dad—"

Simon straightens his shoulders, jaw tight. “Would rather die than do that.”

Your father stares at him. Long. Hard.

Then he leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and holds out his hand again.

“Well then. Glad we understand each other.”

Simon grips it without hesitation. Firm. Respectful.

When they finally release, the room breathes again.

You lean back on the couch, heart pounding.

“Well,” you say, “that went better than I thought.”

MacMillan grunts. “It’s not over yet. I’m staying the weekend.”

Simon exhales—slow and sharp. You see the panic hit him like a wave.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath, and you can’t help but laugh.

"You must be hungry. Let me go heat dinner back up for you," you say, giving Simon’s hand a quick squeeze before heading into the kitchen.

The moment you’re out of sight, the room quiets again—just the soft hum of the fridge and the distant clatter of you pulling dishes from the cabinets.

Simon doesn’t shift in his seat.

MacMillan doesn’t speak right away.

Just sips his beer. Slow. Deliberate.

Then: “You love her?”

Simon’s answer is immediate. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” MacMillan says, setting his bottle down on a coaster. “She’s not easy to love. She’s stubborn. Got her mother’s spine.”

Simon smirks faintly. “I’ve noticed.”

“Means you’ll have to be twice as steady,” he adds, eyes cutting toward Simon. “Because if you make her doubt herself—she’ll run before you even know you’ve lost her.”

Simon’s throat bobs with the swallow. “She’s already got me anchored, sir. Has from the start.”

MacMillan hums at that. Leans back, folding his arms.

“I’ve had soldiers under me break under less. But you—” he eyes Simon up and down, as if trying to read his soul, “—you don’t seem the type to run.”

“I’ve got nowhere else I’d rather be,” Simon says quietly.

The older man gives a slow nod. “Then we really understand each other.”

Another quiet stretch. Then MacMillan leans in just slightly, like he’s offering a rare gift.

“She laughs more around you. Talks faster. Sleeps better, I think.”

Simon blinks, caught off guard.

MacMillan doesn’t let it show, but his voice softens, just a touch. “So whatever it is you’re doing... keep doing it.”

Before Simon can respond, your voice floats in from the kitchen.

“Hope you two aren’t trying to out-intimidate each other in there.”

MacMillan chuckles under his breath, just once. “Not yet.”

Simon exhales a quiet breath of relief.

Not full approval, yet—but respect.

And from a man like MacMillan? That might be even better.

Simon’s still lost in that thought when MacMillan speaks again—calm, direct.

“You thinkin’ about proposing?”

Simon blinks. Stares. “I haven’t... not thought about it.”

MacMillan shifts in his seat. Reaches into his coat pocket. Pulls out a small velvet box and holds it out.

“That was her mother’s,” he says simply. “She’s always wanted it. Was waiting for her to find a man good enough to give it to her. So when you’re ready—you have my approval.”

Simon forgets how to breathe.

His eyes drop to the box. His hands move slow, careful as he takes it. The weight of it sinks into his palm like a stone.

“Thank you… sir.”

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[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 13

Simon loves you. And ends up regretting it—momentarily.

All parts here

2,203 words

(Pictures aren't mine. Gotta love Pinterest.)

(And this is basically an AU that I made up. Still set in, and a little before MW 2019, so eat up bitches<3)

Color Key: Price- red | Gaz- green | Soap- Orange | Text- purple

Your hours keep getting shorter.

Hell, you have more days off scheduled than you’ve ever had before.

When you finally confront Price about it, he waves you off saying, ‘you deserve it’.

But you know the truth. It’s obvious the way Soap and Gaz get giddy like children asking about Ghost and your plans for the days off coming.

Simon loves being in your home with you, but he hates feeling so restless. Only 5 days into his 10 day break. He's literally into your British baking show with you. Delving into the drama with you to keep his mind and attention on something other than what he may be missing at base.

So, hearing the boys have a night off, and you get off work early, you invite them over for dinner. Asking each of them personally, not over text. But you send them the address, tell them to wear something comfortable and be there at 7. To which they all agree.

So when you get home at 5, you wash up, get comfy and start looking through what you have that would feed everyone. Feeding someone as big as Simon has been a doozy, but three more of him? Definitely a challenge.

You don't even tell Simon they're coming, just make up an excuse that you want him to have leftovers for when you're working. He didn't question it, knowing how you like to cook.

He gives you a look when there's a knock on the door. His hand instinctively flies to his waist despite nothing being on his belt. He almost groans as he strides over to the door and opens it, surprised to see his Captain and two Sergeants, each carrying their own gift to this so called "dinner party".

He turns around as he lets them in, giving you that look that just says 'really?' without speaking as he sees the smile on your face. Each man hands over what they brought.

What gentleman—they each greet you shamelessly. Kyle sets a store-bought cake on the counter, Price brought a bottle of wine, and Johnny—ever the charmer—brought flowers, already set pretty and perfect in a nice vase with a bow.

You thank them and shoo them from your kitchen, basically forcing them to focus on Simon and not you. That's what they're here for anyways. You continue cooking, humming to yourself. Bringing them a cold beer only to smack Johnny upside the head when he tells Simon to 'lock it down with this one before I do,' earning an eye roll from Simon.

They all chat for a bit before Price spots the photo on one of the many bookshelves. The one Simon had noticed snooping around the other day. The only difference? Price has the balls to question you on it.

"Is that fuckin' MacMillan? Y/N, why do you have so many pictures with him?"

You hum in acknowledgement and chuckle. "That's my dad."

Simon immediately goes silent. Internally scolding himself for feeling jealous and possessive over her own goddamn father.

All of the men, in fact, go silent. The first to speak up is Johnny. "But yer last name isn't MacMillan, lass."

"He insisted I have my mom's last name. So he could keep me safe and out of his life. Though I didn't listen much considering where I am now." You chuckle softly and go to pull dinner from the oven when the timer goes off.

They all collectively look at Simon. Kyle finally speaks, "Have fun winning her dad over now. You think Price is a hardass? Mac is where he got it from."

Simon huffs, acting as if it doesn't phase him. In reality? He's in over his bloody head. He had pictured meeting your father before, but in his mind it was a simple civilian, not the man who made his Captain who he is today.

The man from so many fucking stories he basically fucking fangirled over. The man he never met, but looked up to.

It makes him spiral. Even if he doesn't show it. Thinking he's not good enough. Not soft enough. Not human enough. Not enough at all for the daughter of an absolute legend like that.

Price makes him snap out of it, "well then, it's a good thing I tell him good things about my Lieutenant when we call to check in."

You set the table, listening to them chat up a storm about this new revelation. Yet never hear a word from Simon's mouth. Once you've finished, you lean against the doorframe shaking your head.

"My dad already likes him. I've talked to him about Simon. But enough about my dad. Dinner's ready, come fill your faces." You wait for each of them to pass you, Simon's the last, looking at you like you've killed his puppy.

"It's okay. We'll talk later." You assure him softly, following him into the dining room.

Luckily, dinner is lighter conversation. All men inhaling the food—literally, Johnny almost chokes at one point. By the time it's over, there's barely any leftovers, and yet they all have room for the cake Kyle had brought. Where they put it—and keep their figures? You have absolutely no clue.

About an hour later, they all agree on heading out for the night, thanking you for dinner and telling Simon they'll see him back at work soon. You both wave off the boys. The door clicks shut.

Simon doesn’t even wait.

“So that’s it? You weren’t gonna tell me your dad is Baseplate bloody MacMillan?”

You blink at him, lips twitching. “What, didn’t want the surprise dinner to come with legacy trauma?”

He doesn’t laugh.

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” he mutters. “You know what I mean.”

You sigh, stepping closer. “Yes. That’s my dad. Captain MacMillan. You scared now?”

“Scared?” He scoffs, jaw tight. “No. Just… fuckin’ hell, love.”

His shoulders are stiff, defensive—like you’ve backed him into a corner without even meaning to. And yet, beneath all of it, there’s a flicker of something else in his expression.

Insecurity. Doubt.

You soften, voice gentle. “Simon... I’ve already talked to him about you. Every Friday night, we catch up. He asks about my week. I tell him about you.”

“You told MacMillan about me?” he asks, voice rough with disbelief.

You nod. “I didn’t tell him everything. Just the important bits. Told him there was someone good. Someone steady.”

Simon looks away, swallowing hard.

“He thinks I’m a good man?” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Your dad?”

You smile faintly. “He’s heard of you. Said you’re solid. Smart. Capable. Said you reminded him of Price once upon a time.”

His arms slowly uncross. Still tense—but there’s a crack in his armor now. You press your advantage, gently.

“You know how many guys I’ve told him about before?”

“Let me guess. None?”

“Worse. A few. And he hated all of them. Didn’t even try to hide it.”

Simon’s brow furrows. “So why not me?”

You step in close, placing a hand against his chest—right over his heart.

“Maybe because you’re the only one who never tried to pretend to be someone he’d approve of. You’re just... you. And he respects that. So do I.”

His hand comes up, slowly, resting over yours.

“Still feels like I’ve got to prove myself.”

You tilt your head, eyes meeting his.

“You don’t have to prove anything, Simon. Not to him. Not to me. You just have to stay—and keep being the man I already love.”

That breaks something in him. Not visibly. But you feel the shift.

His chest rises. Falls. And for the first time all night, he really breathes.

“That’s a bloody tall order, y’know,” he mutters, voice softer now.

You grin. “Good thing you’re bloody fuckin' tall, then.”

He rolls his eyes, "Alright. Fine," he says, almost pouting.

You chuckle and walk away to clean the kitchen and dining room, making sure to add, "You're cute when you're like this."

Simon huffs and runs a hand over his face, yet turns to follow and help you clean up.

...

The kitchen’s clean. The house is quiet. The boys are gone.

You dig out the fluffiest throw blanket and cue up something mindless and cozy—your favorite comfort movie.

Simon appears from the hallway, freshly showered, hair still damp, wearing sweatpants and his hoodie. With 'RILEY' printed on the back.

You pout, brows furrowed. "That's my hoodie."

He chuckles as he leans against the doorframe, "Actually, love, it's my hoodie. You just stole it from me."

You huff, "What's yours is mine, and what's mine is mine—or whatever they say." Earning a low chuckle from him.

“You comin’ or am I watchin’ this domestic fluff alone?” you tease, patting the spot beside you.

He sinks onto the couch beside you with a groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “Could use a bit of your fluffy shit after tonight.”

You lean against him. He lets you.

Eventually, his arm stretches around your shoulders and pulls you closer. The kind of quiet where you both feel safe. Settled. Finally.

“Still thinking about him?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away.

“Hard not to,” he admits. “It’s MacMillan, love.”

You shift so you can look at him properly. “Yeah? Well... he’s just my dad. Gruff, snarky, and awful at texting.”

That earns you a small laugh. Victory.

“Thanks for not letting me spiral,” he mutters.

You nudge his side. “Thanks for trusting me enough not to.”

He leans down, kisses your temple, and breathes in like he’s grounding himself in your scent.

“Could stay like this forever.”

“You’d get bored of me.”

“Not fuckin’ likely. Your taste in movies, maybe.”

You spend hours cuddled up, watching random movies. You eventually fall asleep against him, and just as Simon was gonna carry you to bed, your phone buzzes.

Simon shifts carefully, trying not to wake you as he picks your phone up to check the screen. One new message—which of course he can read since you made him put his face in your Face ID list.

Dad- "Touching down tomorrow morning, thought I'd surprise you. can't wait to see you."

Simon stares at it, heart in his throat.

"Fuckin' hell," he mutters under his breath. Looking down at you sound asleep in his lap.

"Yer gonna be the death of me."

He carries you to bed despite the anxiety flowing through every bone in his body. Setting you in it as if you're the most precious thing in existence. Which to him? You are.

Come first light, you're still asleep.

Sunlight’s just starting to filter in through the blinds. And Simon? He’s been awake for hours.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, unshaven, bare-faced, hunched over your phone with a look of pure dread on his face. A cup of tea sits untouched beside him, going cold.

The text from your dad stares up at him.

“Touching down tomorrow, thought I’d surprise you. can’t wait to see you.”

Simon rereads it like it’s a bomb he’s trying to defuse.

He gets up—pacing.

He’s not even wearing his mask, but you’d think he was going on a mission. He’s muttering to himself. Pulling open your fridge. Shutting it. Opening it again. What the fuck is he even looking for? Confidence?

He mentally runs through everything he needs to do to make a good impression.

Shake his hand. Firm. Not aggressive.

Eye contact—but not staring into your soul eye contact.

Don't curse. Try, at least.

Don't say anything about her in bed—fucking obviously.

Offer to cook? No—grill. Men grill. Fuck, does she even have a grill?

Clean the goddamn house.

Clean yourself up. For fuck's sake.

When you wake up, you stop mid-step and mid-yawn. He's mopping...

"Did you kill someone?" you ask slowly.

He looks up like a deer caught in high beams.

"He's coming tomorrow."

You blink, brows furrowing in confusion. "Who?"

"MacMillan."

"My dad?"

"Yeah. That one."

He stands up, gestures wildly at the spotless kitchen like he’s trying to pass a barracks inspection.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, alright? I’ve gone face-to-face with men who are trying to kill me without blinking, and somehow this is worse.”

You lean against the wall, hiding your smile. “Simon…”

“You don’t get it. This man trained Price. Price. Your dad probably taught him how to glare.”

You cross the room, wrap your arms around him. He exhales shakily against your shoulder.

“Babe,” you murmur. “He already likes you. Just… be you. You know... the ‘you’ who mopped at six in the morning because he’s nervous.”

"Easy for you to say. He's proud of you if you breathe."

You chuckle. "That is true.. But if you tell him what you've told me, he'll be proud of you too."

His shoulders fall. Finally relaxing, just a little. "You think so?"

"I know so," you rub his back softly, looking at your now spotless kitchen. "Plus I'll tell him about this little stress clean you had."

He abruptly cups your face in his hands. Firm—but gentle. "Don't you dare."

You chuckle. "I love you."

He rolls his eyes, pressing a kiss to your head before wrapping his arms around you and pulling you closer to him. "Yeah, I know."

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais @simonexxx1

[weeping-treee]

literally obsessed with this.

Turning Page | Masterlist

You work at the library Simon and his daughter frequent.

single dad! alpha Simon Riley x librarian! omega Reader

please heed tags before each chapter

⤷ Fancy Nancy

⤷ Corduroy

⤷ Rainbow Fish

⤷ Angelina Ballerina

⤷ Rainbow Fish & 2

⤷ Chapter 6

ao3 | main masterlist

[weeping-treee]

I wrote like three paragraphs of Ghost stuff MONTHS ago, and I can’t wait until I’m able to incorporate it into A Desperate Man:3

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 12

Simon fucking loves you. Almost too much.

All parts here

2,100 words

This man loves you.

I mean LOVES you.

You realize quickly that Simon shows it in actions more than words—because when he tries to talk about it, it damn near short-circuits him.

So there you sit, quietly in the tub together.

His fingers massaging shampoo into your hair? Fucking heaven.

Then knowing to leave your conditioner in for a few minutes before rinsing it? Jesus, if you could get this man pregnant, you would.

Then he insists on drying your hair off and you off, and you just look up at him with that sleepy love the whole time.

You're capable. He knows that. You definitely know that... but why deny being pampered by a man like him?

He smiles softly down at you before kissing your head and allowing you to get dressed for work, still grumpy himself about being on leave while he heals up.

As if he didn't pound you into the bed an hour ago...

You get dressed, coffee already wafting from the kitchen—sharp and rich in your sinuses.

You follow the smell and lean against the doorframe, taking in the sight of that big burly man clad in only sweats in your kitchen, making you coffee... even if he hates the stuff.

He drinks plain Earl Grey tea—like the goddamn psychopath he is. But you love him nonetheless.

But he looks damn good in your kitchen. Walking around like he's been there before—he hasn't—but has a confidence about him like he owns the place. Granted, he has that same confidence everywhere, but in your space? It means so much more, like you’ve made a space safe enough for him to feel that way.

But every now and then—when he catches your eye and you’re just watching him—that confidence flickers. He fidgets. Glances away. Like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to have this. You.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he murmurs as you sip your coffee, “I’m gonna start thinking I’m handsome or something.”

“You are.”

He smirks, ears tinting pink. “Well… suppose I’ll let you say it, just this once.”

A beat.

“...Maybe twice. If you really mean it.”

"Atta boy, you're learning." You tease.

"Keep it up and you won't be getting to base on time." He turns and leans against the counter, arms crossed against his chest.

You chuckle softly, heading over to pour yourself a cup of coffee, standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder. "You gonna be alright here alone?"

He hums softly and nods before speaking. "I'll be alright, love. Go save some lives."

You huff softly, "Are you sure? I'm sure Price wouldn't mind if I called off to stay—"

"Don't. I don't need a babysitter. I'd love to have you here with me, but you’re the best surgeon they’ve got—they need you more than I do." He adds lightly.

"Alright—okay. I'll go." You say sipping your coffee.

“Y’know,” he says, glancing around your kitchen, “your house’s too quiet without you. Might have to leave somethin’ behind just to make sure I come back once I'm healed.”

“Like what?”

“Dunno. Toothbrush. Shirt. Me.”

You roll your eyes. "Cocky."

He grins smugly. "You make it easy."

Then he pauses like he might say more, but instead just shrugs.

“Figured if I left somethin’ behind, I’d have an excuse to come back. Not that I need one if you're here.”

You shake your head with a smile and check your phone. 6:30. You groan softly. "I've gotta get going, Simon. I'll be home around 5, okay?"

“You left your badge on the table by the door,” he calls as you pat yourself down, making sure you have everything.

You stop mid-pat, blinking. “...Have you been spying on me?”

“Just memorizin’,” he says, not even looking up. “Guess that’s what a bloke does when he’s properly ruined for someone.”

You can't deny the way your heart flutters. He's been in your space for 12 hours, and he's already locked into you. Your routine, small details... everything.

He walks you to the door, hand on your lower back. “Text me when you get there,” he says, like a worried boyfriend.

You still haven’t gotten used to how natural this feels—him in your space. Walking you to the door like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

Then he clears his throat. “I mean. If you want. Not like I’m gonna pace around waitin’ or anything.”

You arch a brow.

“Okay, maybe a little.”

"You're adorable," you say reaching up to kiss his cheek, he leans down a bit to meet you halfway, pulling you in a bit more to kiss you.

"Be safe." He says softly, making you melt.

"I will be, Si." you say with a small smile. The nickname slipping so naturally. He releases you—reluctantly—and you grab your car keys.

It leaves him breathless, staring at you as if you hung the moon and stars. The softness in your voice as you called him Si... something his mother called him when he was a child... both heals and breaks his heart simultaneously.

You force the front door open and step out onto the porch, he follows silently, only managing to speak when you're down the steps.

“I love you.”

He says it like he’s finally handing over something he’s been carrying for years—like it’s heavier than it looks.

You turn and walk backward a few steps, a slow, knowing smile tugging at your lips.

“I know,” you tease gently. “I love you too.”

You get to your car and slide in, giving him a small smile and wave before you're driving down the dirt road. Leaving him alone—and suddenly empty—without your bubbly presence.

He watches until your car disappears down the road, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs under his breath, stepping back inside.

Your coffee mug still sits on the counter.

He picks it up like it's fragile. Holds it for a second. Then sets it back down with a little shake of his head.

He's completely and utterly done for.

...

Simon's day is much different than yours.

It's not that he's snooping... he's just, looking around.

Studying the few pictures you have lying around with you and another man.

He doesn't assume anything right away. Trying to ignore the possessive, jealous curl of something crawling up his spine—but it’s there.

He looks through your bookshelf, kitchen, bedroom.

'Just wanting to learn more about you.' He tells himself... but in truth? He's a nosey little shit.

Though he knows he can't snoop all day long, even if it's already been 5 hours. He relatively knows the food you eat, considering the way you couldn't quit talking when he was bedridden.

He finds a recipe card in the kitchen for something he remembered you talking about. Chicken Bacon Ranch Pasta. He reads it with a small hum, then looks through your pantry, finding the ingredients and making do.

The only thing is... he can't cook to save his life.

I mean, when you live off the base food and MREs, you don't need to learn. Boiling water’s already pushing it for him.

So if you come home to a burned-down kitchen—at least he tried.

...

Your day? Chaotic.

You’d left that house glowing, still buzzing from the warmth of him.

Now it’s like you’ve been slammed back into orbit.

The hallway’s loud, the air reeks of antiseptic, and your phone’s already buzzing with emergencies.

It’s like love was a dream—and this, this is the wake-up call.

You take a breath, steady yourself. Game face on.

Time to save lives, even if your heart’s still back in that kitchen.

Then, of course, hell breaks loose.

The new intern didn't stock the crash cart the way you specifically labeled it. If you weren't paying attention, you could've given a patient Diphenhydramine instead of Epinephrine.. which without realizing, would be fatal when you needed Epi.

Strike One.

You let it go, first day error. Cut the kid some slack, right?

Then strike two. They skipped their ABCs and a soldier fresh off the field needed to be intubated for the ash coating their airway.

They don't even get strike three before you pull them into the hallway and chew them a new asshole.

Soap and Gaz happened to be passing by down the hall, each getting a glimpse of what Simon gets to deal with if he ever fucks up... heaven forbid. Soap already sending a text to him, giving him a cryptic warning to 'not piss yer missus off'.

You make the intern shadow a nurse. Not allowed to touch anything, just watch and learn.

By the time 5 rolls around, you're beyond annoyed, ready to get home and use Simon as a pillow for the rest of the night.

...

You pull into your driveway with a small sigh.

Stretching once out of the car and heading for the door, only to be met with a burning smell when you walk in—and no sign of Simon.

You drop your bag and coat, rushing to the kitchen to be met with a stressed Simon, cussing under his breath as he burns chicken in a pan. It smells like regret and singed determination.

He jumps when you walk in, nearly drops the pan.

“Shit—bloody hell—this wasn’t supposed to be on fire,” he mutters, waving a dish towel like it’ll help.

The smoke alarm chirps weakly in the background. He glares at it like it insulted his mother.

“I followed the bloody instructions,” he grumbles, holding the spatula like it personally betrayed him.

Then he sighs, shoulders sinking as he peers into the pan like he can will the chicken back to life.

“Was tryin’ to be romantic, not start a bloody house fire.”

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. He turns around and looks like a disheartened child, which tugs at your heartstrings.

"Here, let me help." You step in, turn the heat on the pan down, and pour in some oil.

You can hear his sigh of relief and feel the tension roll off him in waves.

"I was trying to make you dinner," he murmurs, "but I can't cook for shit."

You chuckle and look over at him. "I can see that." You wrap an arm around his side and rub his back. "I'll teach you, don't worry."

You don't make fun of him. You don't make him feel bad. You don't patronize him or treat him like an idiot. You just talk him through it, you answer his questions and show him how to do something if you see his brows furrow. It’s endearing, the way he looks at a pot like it might explode if he blinks wrong.

In the end? It tastes great, and he did most of the work with your instruction. It's something you did. Together.

“Jesus—where’d you get this recipe?” He says, mouth still half full.

“Saw something like it on a cooking show and made it up.” You shrug, as if that’s an easy thing to do.

“Made it up? Just like that?” he says, stunned.

“Yeah.. just like that. It’s not that hard if you know what you’re doing.”

“Christ-“ he says shaking his head, not believing it.

“It’s like your guns. You put one in front of me, I won’t be able to disassemble it or put it back together like you can. It’s second nature for you… just like cooking and baking is for me.”

“Doesn’t make you any less brilliant, love.”

“Shut up. You’re just sayin that because it’s not greasy bar food or the bases lunch.”

“Maybe.” He teases with a smile on his face.

You roll your eyes. “You are insufferable.”

“You love me,” he states, smugly

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

Once finished, he grabs both the empty plates and carries them to the kitchen without asking.

You follow, standing beside him like it’s second nature now.

“We make a good team,” you murmur, nudging his elbow with yours.

“Always have, always will,” he replies, without missing a beat.

He sets the plates down and reaches for your hand.

Just holds it. Like he’s not ready to let go—even after the meal’s done.

...

Later that night, full and content, he pulls you close on the couch and murmurs into your hair...

“Next time, I’ll just order takeaway and lie about it.”

You laugh against his chest. “Smart man.”

He hums. “Still can’t believe you ate it.”

You chuckle, kissing him on the cheek. “Still can’t believe you made it.”

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais @simonexxx1

[weeping-treee]

Guard Dogs | Masterlist

You were a proper good girl. Just like in his fantasies when he was a little boy. Ghost only looked to protect you from the evils of the world just like Riley. Your two personal guard dogs.

But maybe this is where he belonged, on the other side of the glass, staring at you from afar. Even if Riley wanted more.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Neighbor!Reader

Please heed tags before each chapter as this story is 18+ & contains NSFW content

10.3K words | 5 chapters | Complete

⤷ Window Panes

⤷ Chicken Pot Pie

⤷ Good Things End

⤷ Lucky

⤷ Rainstorms

ao3 | main masterlist

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 11

Simon fucking loves you. Almost too much.

All parts here

2,111 words | MDNI. 18+ only

cw: fluff, p in v, cl!t stimulation, praise, begging, pet names, creampie, soft smut buildup, explicit language, soft-dom Simon.

(First time writing smut, I edited for days I'm ngl, I hope y'all like it😭)

Before you know it, he has you pinned beneath him.

You swear it was at lightning speed.

One moment you're on his lap, the next?

Pinned to the bed beneath him as he intertwines his fingers with yours and holds them to the bed above your head.

Leaning down to kiss you in the least innocent way possible.

When he pulls back, lips tingly and swollen, that stupid smirk tells you exactly what you signed up for.

"Gonna make you all mine; fuck you till' you can't think straight." He dips his head down, warm lips finding your pulse point and nipping a soft line up to your ear... making you moan softly.

He chuckles darkly at your breathless noises. "That's it, love. Let me hear you."

The tone. That chuckle in your ear. Him on top of you.

It makes your head a mess.

A mess filled with only Simon Riley.

You tilt your head to let him suck a mark onto your neck...

Tacky... but when it's Simon? It's a claim. A mark telling everyone you're his—as if they don't already know.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't like it.

He sits up only to tug his shirt up and off and your breath hitches as if you haven't seen it before.

You most definitely have… but like this? Being allowed to look? Unprofessionally?

Your favorite eye candy. All yours.

Your hands instinctively grip his hips as you sit up and crash your lips against his once more.

He groans into the kiss, low and deep, and you feel it echo through his chest—straight down to where you're already aching for him.

He lets you take control for a single breath. Lets you devour him. Lets your nails dig into his sides as your tongue brushes his.

But only for a moment.

Then his hands are on your shoulders, guiding you back down against the mattress with a soft thud, his body following to press flush against yours.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he rasps against your lips. “No rush. I want to take my time with you.”

You whimper—actually fucking whimper—and he rewards it with a slow roll of his hips into yours. Just enough to tease. Just enough to get another needy noise from your lips.

He chuckles, hand dipping down and beneath the waistband of your leggings. Torturing you before his fingers tease you through your already soaked panties.

Of course he smirks. Smug and oh-so perfect.

“That for me?” he murmurs against your jaw, fingers circling your clit, slowly. Achingly slow. “Fuckin’ soaked and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“Simon…” you breathe, but it comes out as a plea.

He lifts his head, gaze burning into yours. He leans in and kisses you again. His kiss is slower now, deliberate, tongue sliding over yours with maddening control swallowing every desperate little noise that threatens to escape. He removes his hand, leaving you even more desperate.

“You’re not gonna be able to walk tomorrow,” he mutters against your lips. “Think you can handle that?”

You nod, frantic. Desperate.

He grins, the damn bastard. “Good girl.”

Then he’s moving... down your body, lifting your shirt, dragging his lips along every inch of skin he reveals as he goes. Your shirt comes off, he tosses it somewhere behind him. His fingers slide up to cup your perfect tits in his hands. Thumb running over the stiff peak of your nipples before sliding to unclasp the back in a single motion.

You're needy... so needy it's amusing to him. The feral glint in his eye is telling. The reverent hold on every part of your body...

It's not the awkward silent man you sat with in the dimly lit bar almost a week ago.

This? This is the perfect blend of Simon and Ghost...

Gentle and loving... but also assertive and possessive.

And all you know is you want more of it. So much more of it.

More of him.

Then his fingers hook into your waistband, eyes flicking up to meet yours as he tugs.

“Gonna ruin you, love,” he says, voice hoarse with hunger. “But you’ll thank me for it.”

And with the way he's looking at you—like you're his religion, his battlefield, his goddamn victory?

You're already ruined.

He leans back on his heels, dragging your leggings and panties down together, slow and methodical—like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

Because to him?

You are.

His eyes trail over your body like he’s committing every inch to memory. Like he’s about to carve it into his soul.

“So fuckin’ beautiful…” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “All fuckin' mine.”

Then he lowers his mouth to your inner thigh and kisses—soft, open-mouthed, claiming you one inch at a time. You gasp as his stubble grazes tender skin, and he groans at the sound.

“Spread your legs for me, love.”

The voice. That tone. You obey instantly. Met with him putting your thighs over his shoulders.

He settles between them like he belongs there, and God, he does.

The first flick of his tongue is fucking lethal. A slow, teasing pass over your clit that makes your back arch.

He hums, pleased with himself, tongue working in tight, perfect circles as his fingers dig into your hips to hold you in place.

“Fuck... Simon—”

“Keep sayin’ my name like that,” he growls, lips slick, voice wrecked. “Sound like a fuckin’ angel beggin’ for sin.”

He doesn’t stop. Not even when your thighs tremble around his shoulders. Not even when you moan his name like a prayer, over and over, until it breaks into a cry and your body locks up beneath him. Gorgeous thighs threatening to crush his head.

He fuckin’ smirks like a smug asshole as you fall apart on his tongue.

But he’s not done. Not even close.

Coming down from your high, you don't even hear his belt and jeans come off.

He crawls back up your body, messy and flushed, grabbing your thighs and hitching them around his waist.

“Still think you can handle me?” he asks, lining himself up against your soaked core, dragging the head of his cock through your slick just to hear you beg.

“I want all of you,” you whisper, breathlessly. “Please, Simon…”

And when he sinks into you, inch by inch, it’s not just sex.

It’s possession. It’s worship. It’s fuckin' everything.

And you welcome it all.

His forehead presses against yours as he bottoms out. Resting there as you both breathe softly.

What a cocky gentleman... letting you adjust to the way he splits you in two.

"So fuckin' tight, sweetheart," he rocks his hips gently against yours, earning a soft whimper from you.

"S'big Si... Feels like you're splitting me in half." You manage to say, opening your eyes to look at him.

Those chocolate brown eyes meet yours. His jaw is tight, lips curved in that damn smirk still.

He's holding back. Being gentle, just for you.

"You cocky asshole..." You chuckle softly, kissing him.

Your remark is met with a deep grind, causing you to moan into the kiss and grip his biceps. Nails digging in to ground you.

“Don’t be bratty.” His voice is low, almost scolding—but there’s that damn smirk again. Like he lives for your sass. Lives for the way your walls flutter around him when he puts you in your place.

And God, he’s still barely moving.

He just stays there. Deeper than ever. Rocking into you with the kind of slow precision that makes you see stars. Every inch dragging against your walls like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out.

You’re already a mess.

Clinging to his arms like they’re your only tether to reality.

Breath stuttering as your body adjusts to every inch of him.

“Simon…” you breathe, voice ragged, “please.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then your jaw. Like he’s trying to soothe the burn while still feeding it.

“You beg real fuckin' pretty, love,” he murmurs, cock twitching inside you as he pulls back—just a little—then pushes forward again, harder this time.

You gasp, nails dragging down his arms, and his lips part in a groan.

“That’s it,” he huffs, pace picking up just slightly. “Take it. You were made to take me, baby.”

Your brain is melting. All you can do is nod, moan, wrap your legs tighter around his waist and cling to him like your life depends on it.

Because right now?

It fucking does.

Each thrust is more desperate. More intense. More him.

He buries his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged against your skin. One hand slips under your thigh, hooking it higher, angling you just right—and when he hits that spot?

You cry out.

He bites down gently on your shoulder, not enough to hurt—just enough to feel the sharp edge of control still lingering under all that tenderness.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growls. “Could stay buried in this cunt for hours.”

“Then do it,” you gasp. “Don’t stop. Please, Simon—don’t fuckin' stop—”

“Not planning to, love,” he pants, snapping his hips harder. “Not until you come all over me. Want to feel you squeeze the fuck outta me. Want to hear you scream my name.”

You're so close. Every drag of him inside you sends your nerves sparking.

And he knows it. He sees it. He feels it.

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced pressure, working you in perfect sync with each thrust.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the words into your skin. “Come for me. Be a good girl and come on my cock.”

Your entire body seizes, white-hot and breathless as your climax hits like a freight train. You cry out, clutching him, clenching around him, and he follows with a low, guttural groan—slamming into you once, twice more before spilling inside you.

He stays there.

Buried deep.

Forehead pressed to yours again.

Both of you breathless. Utterly spent.

Connected in a way that damn well has repercussions to deal with.

Something real. Something fucking terrifying.

He kisses you—slow this time. Sweet. Reverent.

And it’s not Ghost that kisses you like that.

It’s Simon.

Purely Simon fuckin' Riley.

You expect him to collapse and go back to sleep like any other man would at this point.

But no, he scoops you up out of bed—still connected—earning a small squeal of surprise from you.

"Let's clean you up, yeah?" He presses a soft kiss to your temple. "Did so good for me, love."

The praise.

Good lord.

He sets you on your sink. Stepping back with a small squeeze of your hips while you both hiss softly as he pulls out. Leaving you dripping him.

This gorgeous, smug asshole... walking around your bathroom as if he lives there.

It's too early for that question... isn't it? You snap out of your head when the tub faucet kicks on.

You look up at him as he stands between your legs once more. Eyes tired and spent.

"I love you." You murmur softly.

He smirks, a soft huff comes with it. "I know, baby."

He lifts you up and sets you in the warm water, climbing in behind you and pulling you back against him.

Which you happily do, resting back against him with a small content hum.

You rest against his chest, arms wrapped around his while his hands trace slow, aimless shapes along your stomach.

It’s quiet for a while. Just the sound of water lapping against porcelain, your breathing syncing with his.

“I love you too.” He murmurs against your ear.

Your heart skips. You feel it more in his voice than the words. Low. Unsteady. Like he means it more than he knows how to say.

You turn slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of your eye.

He looks tired. Calm. Stripped bare in a way you’re sure only you ever get to see.

“I know I'm not gonna say it much,” he murmurs, chin resting atop your head. “But I need you to know it. I feel it. Every bloody second.”

You blink, suddenly a little too warm, the heat of the bath competing with the heat in your chest.

“I know,” you whisper back, entwining your fingers with his and lifting them to softly kiss the back of his hand.

He hums—deep and content—and tightens his arms around you.

“Gonna have to stop lookin’ at me like that though,” he mumbles, nuzzling your neck, pressing a kiss to the hickey he left.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I’m already thinkin’ about goin’ another round.”

You laugh. “You’re insatiable.”

His hands slide lower, playful now. “Only for you, love.”

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais

[weeping-treee]

How do y'all do it?? Writing smut for the first time got me feelin so icky and braindead as if I don't read and drool over it everyday🫠😵‍💫

Part 11 is out tho..🫡😭

[weeping-treee]

John Price who has ditzy!reader as their neighbor. | cw: mdni, fluff, suggestive content, age gap (30s John and late 20s reader)

You’re always peeking on your top toes over the stone wall that separates his property from the main road and ogling over how John takes care of his property. It’s lush and green, full of trees and trimmed hedges, full of beautiful flowers beds, hanging plants from the porch, perfectly bricked path that leads to the backyard, and John is there tinkering at the working bench.

You’re not as discreet as you should be when you’re peeking, it was easier for the older man to notice you because you let out little grunts when you try to look over the wall. Manicured nails and curly hair popping out while your big brown eyes take in the enchanting scenery. And you can’t help but look at John, watching him unconsciously flex his muscles and his back while wiping away the sweat that grows on his forehead— he’s a total dream. And then he’d turn around, hearing he hears the ‘click, clack’ of your kitten heels as you scurry away.

You’re a pretty little thing, he can’t help but eye you himself. He decides to see that little brain work, catch you slipping. Right as you get on your tip toes to peek over the stone wall, your eyes fall onto the new, large carved flower pots that sit near the shed. You can’t help but daydream about the flowers he’ll use. Maybe petunias, or marigolds, or some pink and yellow peonies—

“Are you gonna stare the whole time, or use your words?”

You slipped, chills running through you as you fell back immediately to the pavement. There’s laugher from the other side of the wall and then you hear the gate click open, revealing the man you’ve been staring at without him knowing.

“I- I didn’t,” you pant, hand over your chest, heart racing “I didn’t notice you there.”

“Well I noticed you,” he smirks, coming over and gently taking you by the hand, “You alright? Not hurt are you sweetheart?”

“Not at all.” You hum, dusting yourself.

“You’ve been spying over my wall, yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, playful, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “That’s not very neighborly is it love?”

Your chest pounds out of your chest, you stutter out, “I-It’s just- It’s so pretty! I saw it from up there!” You point, over to your little cottage just a walk at so away. A shabby and old stone two story house, with shrubbery growing out of country and vines climbing up the sides of the home.

He can’t help but get lost in your big brown eyes, your bottom lip pursed out as you try to explain to him why your innocent in this situation, not even realizing that John could care less about it. He just wanted to get closer to you.

Be neighborly.

He gives you a nod and understanding smile, “Why don’t we make your yard pretty too, could use a bit ‘f work, a little lady like you might need some help.”

And you nod, bright eyes and bushy tailed, squealing in excitement, you jump into his arms unexpectedly, taking John off guard.

“Thank you Mr. Price! You’re the best!” And you jump up and down, skipping away, “I have to finish some things at home but I’ll come back tomorrow! See ya later!” and you give him a big wave with your two hands.

You’d be the death to that old man.

John Price who teaches ditzy!reader how to build out her own flower beds with some old spare wood he had in the shed. He’s all the more patient with you even when you ask, “Why do you have to sand it down?” And “which nails do we use again Mr. Price?” He finds you to be the cutest thing on the planet. You don’t even realize that hes had his large hand on the small of your back this entire time but you’re so focused, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. You only seem to only be able to take in one thing at a time.

John Price who has to hide his boner when you come over in nothing but a tight pair of shorts that hugs your ass and hips ever so perfectly and a small t-shirt that lifts everytime your raise your arms.

You tilt you head to the side, blinking twice, then smiling, “You alright Mr. Price?”

No, no he wasn’t.

But he’d simply smile, rushing you off to go back home since it was getting late. You’d furrow your eyebrows but oblige, ever so cutely waving goodbye. And right as the door to his locked shut, John was rushing to take a cold shower.

Ditzy!reader who doesn’t realize John is fully flirting with them. And he’s tried it all, getting close, saying cheesy pick up lines, making the hairy man show off his body. And of course all you do is stupidly giggle, and shy away, peeking over at the older man as your heart thumps so fast, the heat rising under your brown skin.

“Mr. Price you sure are silly, huh?” You always say, smoothing down your skirt nervously. You believe his actions are just accidents. Like his hand on your back, or his sweet compliments on your outfits and your pretty face, and the way he wipes crumbs off your face and licks his thumb that make your guts spin in delights. He must be kind to all the women he talks to.

John Price who takes it upon himself to inform you hes going to kiss you since you looked utterly stunning under the moon and twinkly lights glow after your weekly dinner in his garden.

You were already magnetically pulled together already, and you kept squirming, pushing your beautiful breasts up unconsciously in your mint green corset. Delectable.

“[+]?” and you hum in response, his face right in yours, his cheeks red as ever, pink lips hovering over yours.

“Uh-huh?”

“I’m gonna to kiss you.”

“O-oh!”

And he softly kisses you, once. And then pulls away. But he can’t help but want- no need to feel your lips on his once more. So he kisses you again. Your eyes shoot open but you melt into him, eyes closing and lazily throwing your arms over his shoulders, deepening the kiss. His beard scratching your face ever to lightly. John pulls you into his lap, capturing your lips in a way that makes you lose yourself. It’s nothing but sweet from the pie John made, that you both indulged in.

“I like you,” John finally admits, with a breathless sigh, “I like you a lot, birdie.”

“Really?” You ask, big eyes widening, utterly shocked, “Since when?”

And he can’t help but laugh, your a ditzy little thing.

His ditzy little thing.

a/n: defeating the writers block and disappointment from earlier with John. Please heal me.

most recent masterlist

[weeping-treee]

Hey my loviess, part 11 is gonna be late, sorry for the wait. I’m taking a break due to life shit. But I thank you all for your support! It’ll be smutty for you babes!

All parts here<3

[weeping-treee]

Hell and Back

Dean Winchester went to hell and came back. What's on this mans mind? Burgers. and you

Dean Winchester x You

1,410 words

(Based on Season 4 eps 2.. just had to get this lil story out. Correlates with a bot I made on C.AI if any of you are interested:))

AU: Lisa is non-existent, cuz fuck her. He's mine.

Dean Winchester.

The lover. The player. He’d never want to settle down. Or so he thought.

You stumbled into his life and turned it upside down in the best way possible. Saved his ass on a hunt, were there for him when Sam died—there for him through it all.

Hell, you had to be held back when he came out with the deal he made to bring Sammy back in the first place.

You argued for hours before you slapped him—and he kissed you.

You two have been inseparable ever since.

The time he has left gets shorter and shorter. Despite the ache in your chest, despite knowing it’s inevitable, you make the most of it.

Even when you can’t sleep. Even when you slip out of bed in the middle of the night to hit the books, searching for anything—anything at all—that might keep him alive.

That might keep him with you.

Every night, it’s the same. He falls asleep, and you make sure he’s out cold before sneaking out of bed. You study, you search, and you crawl back in before he ever stirs.

You’re exhausted. But you never show it.

You hate how damn fond of this cocky asshole you’ve become.

Those eyes? That stupid smirk he gives you when you’re annoyed or pissed off?

You’re absolutely smitten with this man. And you’d do anything to keep him in this shit-ridden world a little longer.

But it proves to be futile as the clock ticks down.

You’re helpless. You and Sam both—forced to watch him get torn to pieces.

Literally.

You’re forced to watch Sam lose his older brother. His rock.

And Lilith gets away, making it all so much worse.

You try to be strong. And you are—for the first week.

But then you leave. You leave Sam and Bobby a note before disappearing off the grid.

They try to find you. But you’ve vanished. Changed your phone, started using cash only—hell, you’re living under a different name.

Four months.

Dean comes back from Hell.

An angel pulled him out—supposedly God called for it.

After the initial shock and reunion with Bobby and Sam, Dean asks about you.

Where you are. If you’re safe.

His questions are met with silence.

They tell him how you just disappeared without a trace. Despite their best efforts, you were impossible to find.

Dean doesn’t accept that.

They carry on—hunting, traveling, working—but Dean stays glued to laptops, police reports, surveillance. Searching for a trace of you. Just one.

And when the ghosts of people they’ve saved come back for revenge?

He knows he needs to find you.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the laptop even when he, Sam, and Bobby bunker down in the panic room. He’s resorted to traffic cams now. Watching. Waiting. Scanning.

Bobby eventually cracks the case, finds the curse, and performs the ritual to reverse it.

The second it’s over, Dean’s back on the computer.

Sleepless. Restless. Obsessive.

Until that feathery bastard shows up.

Castiel.

Dean’s annoyed—naturally—but listens as the angel explains. The witnesses were part of the 66 seals. Lilith is breaking them. And if they all fall?

Lucifer walks free.

He stews as Castiel talks. Then cuts him off.

“Can you find her?”

He means you.

All he gets is a name. A city.

Kansas City, Missouri.

He wakes from the dream with that one piece of information. Doesn’t explain a damn thing to Bobby or Sam before hitting the road.

300 miles.

Nearly 5 and a half hours.

He and Sam get there in less than three.

They scour the city. Asking around. Showing photos. Asking about anyone who looks like you.

Finally—someone says the name of the motel you’re staying at.

Dean’s in the Impala, driving way past the speed limit.

He has to know you’re okay. That you’re still alive. That the witnesses didn’t get to you before he did.

He bribes the front desk and bolts up to your room.

Knocks—no answer. He resorts to picking the lock and enters.

And there you are.

Fresh out of the shower, still drying your hair with a towel.

He drinks you in like a man dying of thirst.

Eyes scanning you head to toe.

You’re wearing his flannel over an old band tee, and black skinny jeans that hang low on your hips.

To him, you’ve never looked more perfect.

His gaze finally meets your eyes—just before you dive for your bag and your gun.

Expected. You still think he’s dead.

He catches you. Tosses the weapon away.

“Hey, hey—don’t do that,” he says, holding you as you struggle. “It’s me, sweetheart.”

“I’ll fucking kill you—think this is some joke? Wearing his skin like a suit?”

You fight him, panic rising—until Sam enters behind him.

“Stop,” Sam says. “It’s really him.”

You go still. Shocked. Disbelieving.

Dean gently turns you in his arms and cups your cheeks.

His brow furrows as he brushes his thumb along the new scar on your left cheekbone.

“It’s really me,” he whispers.

“I’m back.”

Your breath hitches. His hands are warm. Real. The callouses on his thumbs are the same ones that used to trace your jaw when you couldn’t sleep.

"That's impossible..."

And his voice… God, you’d dreamed about it. Tortured yourself with it.

You search his face for any flaw. Any tell that he’s not real. That this is some cruel joke, some hallucination brought on by grief and guilt and the endless nights you spent hunting ghosts and running from your past.

But he doesn’t fade.

Doesn’t disappear.

He’s still there, holding your face like he’s afraid to let go.

Your voice cracks when you speak. “Dean...”

He nods. Just once. And it breaks you.

Your knees buckle and he catches you before you hit the floor, wrapping his arms around you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth. You fist his shirt in your hands, burying your face into the hollow of his neck as a soft sob escapes you. You don’t cry pretty—but he doesn’t seem to care.

He just holds you tighter.

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper, barely audible. “I watched you die.”

Dean’s voice is rough, full of emotion. “I know. I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Your hands shake as you pull back just enough to see him. “How?”

“Angel,” he says. “Name’s Castiel. Pulled me out.”

You blink, disbelieving. “An angel?”

He nods. “Yeah. Said I had shit to do.”

You laugh—sharp, bitter. “There’s always shit to do.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah, but right now? You’re my priority.”

You can’t help it—you press your forehead to his, tears still streaking your face. You breathe him in. The scent of him, the warmth of him, the strength you’ve missed like oxygen.

He pulls back slightly. “You disappeared. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I couldn’t stay,” you admit. “I couldn’t stay around knowing you were really gone. I couldn’t look at Sam. I couldn’t breathe.”

Dean's jaw clenches, but he nods. “I get it. Doesn’t mean I didn’t look for you. Every damn day.”

That hits you hard. Your breath stutters again. “You looked for me?”

“Of course I did,” he says. “You think I was gonna come back from hell and not find you? You’re one of the reasons I survived it in the first place.”

You both fall silent for a moment. The kind of silence that’s full. Heavy with everything you haven’t said.

His thumb brushes under your eye, wiping a tear away. “You got a scar.”

“Demon caught me by surprise. It happens.”

“I hate that you had to go through that alone.”

You shrug, but your fingers tighten around the hem of his shirt. “I didn’t want anyone to see me break.”

Dean leans in, presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re allowed to break. You lost me. Hell, I lost me.”

You let out a shaky breath, resting your head against his chest. “What now?”

Dean glances over your shoulder at Sam, who’s been silently watching from the doorway. Then his hand finds yours.

“Now?” he says softly. “You coming back with us. I'm not letting you disappear. I'm not letting you out of my damn sight."

You hesitate. You’ve built a whole new identity in the last four months. Learned how to vanish. How to be no one.

But looking at him now?

You know damn well who you are.

You’re his.

“Okay,” you whisper with a soft nod.

And then? He finally kisses you. Deep. Real. Grounding.