♱ Poetry in a dead language ♱

𝔧𝔞𝔢’𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 📜🖇️ all things Simon “Ghost” Riley — smut, fluff, and soft. KO-FI

𝔬𝔫𝔢-𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔱𝔰 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. little self-contained stories. sometimes tender, sometimes filthy. always him.

find them ⪼ here.

𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔟𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

• 𝑳𝑰𝑬𝑼𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑨𝑵𝑻 ࣪ ִֶָ☾ — dom!simon | praise | title kink Simon isn’t a first-name privilege. not until you’ve earned it. and when you do? he makes sure you know just how well you did.

𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. longer arcs with lore, feelings, and bad decisions.

• 𝑴𝑨𝑫𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑪𝑨𝑹𝑹𝒀 𝑯𝑰𝑴 ࣪ ִֶָ☾ — husband!simon | pregnancy kink | pt1 pt2 It’s his hands that hold you up. Because if it was his goal to get you like this… it’s his job to take care of you now that you are.

• 𝑨𝑻𝑻𝑰𝑻𝑼𝑫𝑬? 𝑵𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑩𝑳𝑬𝑴 ࣪ ִֶָ☾ — smut | pt1 , pt2 you’ve got an attitude. Simon's got the patience… and the grip. we all know where this is headed—don’t we now?

• 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑳𝑰𝑴𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑺 𝑻𝑶 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑯𝑬𝑭 (𝑵𝒂𝒉, 𝑰 𝑾𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝑭𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒉𝒆𝒇) ࣪ ִֶָ☾ — smut | pt1 , pt2 You say it as a joke, but Simon hears you loud and clear — and he makes his move accordingly.

You’d woken up late, hair a mess, throat scratchy, body sore in that way that only meant one thing; Simon had been entirely too much the night before… like usual. Your phone buzzed that morning and Simon, already half-dressed and standing by your dresser, looked at the screen and raised a brow.

"Doc visit?" he questioned, voice deep, lazy.

You blinked at your phone and realization hit you. "…shit." You did have a scheduled appointment for today which you entirely forgot about.

He shrugged. "I’ll drive."

And like an idiot, sleep-addled and still sore from the night before, you let him come.

Now here you are, spread on the exam table like a goddamn starfish, feet in the stirrups, paper gown bunched up around your waist, fluorescent lighting making everything feel ten times worse… and Simon is in the corner, his legs spread, elbows on his thighs, and scrolling on his phone like he’s in a dentist’s waiting room.

Not one once of shame. You shoot him a look. He doesn’t even reciprocate it but just mutters, "Told you t’ put it on the calendar."

Before you can hiss back at him, the door opens.

Your gynecologist steps in, a nice, polite, middle-aged woman, all business and just stops dead.

Her eyes flick from you and your very exposed situation, then to Simon. The six-foot-something wall of tattoos and muscle, who by the way is generally not in the room. Then back to you.

“Oh!” the doctor says, pleasantly startled. “I… wasn’t expecting a guest today.”

Simon finally looks up. Nods once. “Ma’am.”

Just ma’am. Like he’s greeting a cashier.

You wish the earth would open and swallow you whole.

The doctor put on her gloves with that clinical snap that somehow made this even worse.

You stare at the ceiling like it owes you something. Simon goes right back to scrolling.

The paper under you crinkles as you shift, cheeks hot. The doctor sits on her stool, rolling close between your legs.

“Just going to take a look,” she says. “Any pain lately? Discomfort? Irregular bleeding?”

You open your mouth to say 'no, everything’s fine' but then she hums.

A concerned hum.

You freeze.

“Not alarming,” she assures, too quickly, “Just… some residual bruising on the cervix.”

Your soul leaves your body. “Bruising?” you croak.

Simon’s thumb stops mid-scroll.

The doctor nods. “Yes. Fair amount of tenderness and discoloration.” She pauses, then looks at you knowingly. The doctor hums again, then says the absolute worst possible thing.

"It’s nothing dangerous, but I’d recommend you avoid prolonged, intense activity for a day or two. Especially with something…" She paused. Looked directly at Simon. "…that big."

She does not say big casually. She emphasizes it. Bold. Italic. Underline. Triple-sized font.

BIG.

The room goes silent and the air stops moving for a moment. Even the HVAC system seems to hesitate.

Simon slowly sits back in his chair, like someone just handed him an award.

A slow smirk creeps onto his face, subtle but smug as hell. He doesn’t even pretend humility. Doesn’t cough. Doesn’t deflect. He just stays, quiet and cocky.

You want to die.

The doctor keeps talking, clinically unbothered. “If your partner has a… larger anatomy, you need to take breaks, communicate, maybe use positions with less depth. Going too long can cause bruising or strain.”

The doctor continues, completely unaware of the war happening between you two.

“I’d recommend abstaining for a few days—”

Simon snorts.

You whip your head toward him. “Do you mind ?!” You are going to punch him.

Right here. Feet in the stirrups. Gown open and you’re going to assault this man.

Awhile after, the doctor gently removes her gloves. “All done. You can get dressed.”

As she stands, she looks at Simon again, still uncertain why he’s here at all.

“You’re welcome to wait in the lobby next time,” she offers kindly.

But Simon just stands, stretches, and says “Nah. ’m her support.”

Support.

Support.

As if he didn’t break open your insides twelve hours ago.

You slide off the table, teeth clenched, grabbing your clothes.

The doctor exits politely.

You round on Simon the moment the door shuts. “Next time you’re keeping your ass home”

He shrugs casually, taking your purse for you like the smug bastard he is. “Not my fault the doc praised my dick.”

“She did not praise your dick—”

“She said big.” He leans down, voice low in your ear “Emphasized it too.”

Simon’s eyebrows lift. “Larger anatomy,” he repeats under his breath like he’s tasting the words.

You point a murderous stare at him.

You shove his chest. He catches your wrist. Presses a kiss to your temple.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Get dressed. I’ll take y’ home. You can be mad in the car.”

You mutter, “God I hate you so much right now .”

He smirks. “mhm… right”

i’m back. semester 1 exams are done. you know what that means 😜

The Weight of saying it

You can feel it before he even opens his mouth. That something-isn’t-right feeling. That cold, heavy pressure in your chest. Like the air’s gone stale. Like the earth’s tilting and no one told you to brace yourself.

He’s standing in the doorway, hands clenched at his sides. Boots still on. Jacket unzipped. Like he couldn’t decide if he was coming or going, just ended up here out of instinct.

Your place. Yours. The only place he’s ever been able to breathe.

“Hey,” you say, voice tentative, because he hasn’t looked at you yet. “Everything alright?”

His jaw ticks. Just once. He finally lifts his head. Looks at you. And that’s when it sinks in. No, it’s not alright. Matter of fact, everything is far from alright.

You sit up straighter on the couch. The TV still flickers behind you, some movie you stopped paying attention to ages ago. The whiskey glass in your hand suddenly feels too warm. Too small. Placed aside subconsciously. 

And then he says your name. Soft. Brittle. Like it’s the first time it’s hurt him to say it.

“I need you to let me say this before you say anything back.”

You freeze, just accepting this would be the kind of confession that might shatter whatever world still exists between you.

“I’ve fucked up before,” he starts, voice low, cracking just slightly. “I’ve made bad calls. Hurt people. Lost people. But this—”

He drags a hand down his face. Rubs at his eyes like he’s trying to scrub them clean of the last twenty-four hours. Of the weight he’s carried into your home.

“This is different.”

“There’s someone else,” he says.

You stare at him. You stand up, your body moving faster than your mind ever did. You just step back, and stare at the man in front of you, hoping he doesn't say the words you thought you’d never hear.

The syllables echo. Empty. Hollow. Until they start to land—sharp, jagged pieces breaking open inside your chest.

He sees it. Hears the sharp breath you take, the soundless recoil. But he powers through it, like a man walking into the fire he lit himself.

“She doesn’t mean anything to me. I need you to know that first.”

“It was one time. One night. After a deployment. We weren’t... We weren’t good then. I thought—” He cuts himself off. “No excuses. Just the truth.”

You blink, slow. Your body’s trying to catch up with your mind. But your mind is... blank. Like your brain short-circuited and your heart got left to bleed out on the carpet. You breathe in and press your hands to your thighs like grounding will stop the shaking.

It doesn’t.

He finally meets your eyes. And his voice gets even quieter. “She’s pregnant.”

Silence. That’s all there is. Thick and awful and final.

You feel heat rise to your face. Not anger. Not yet. It’s just humiliation.

Because you didn’t see this coming. Because you let yourself believe he was yours. Because somewhere deep down, you believed that what you had was... solid. Sacred.

“She told me last week,” he says. “I needed to be sure before I came to you. Got the test. It’s real. I’m gonna be a father.”

You tilt your head down and laugh. Disbelief. A sharp, empty exhale that surprises even you. But nothing’s funny. It’s shock.

The tears don’t come right away. They just build like pressure, like static. Like grief. Grief for something that hasn’t even ended yet, but already feels dead.

“I didn’t love her. I don’t love her. I’ve only ever—” He steps forward. “It’s always been you.”

And when you finally speak, your voice isn’t cruel. It isn’t screaming. It’s quiet. Hollow. You look at him, theres nothing behind your eyes, he’s not used to it. Never seen it before. Like he just blew the fuse holding you together.

“Why are you here?”

His eyes widen. “Because I—”

“No,” you cut in. “Why are you here, Simon?”

He finally kneels in front of you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can see the rawness in his eyes. The pain. The regret. The shame.

You look at him now—really look. His face, the lines in it, the panic behind his eyes. You’ve never seen him like this. And somehow, it makes it worse.

“Are you here because you love me?” you ask, voice tight. “Or because you’re scared of what loving her would mean?”

He shakes his head, fast, like denial alone could fix this.

“There is no her,” he says. “There never was.”

“Except now there is,” you snap, and your voice finally breaks. “Because you made sure of that.”

He goes silent.

And you hate how much he still looks at you like you’re something he wants to protect.

“This isn’t about my career. Or my past. It’s about us,” he says.

“Do you know what it’s like,” you say, the tears finally slipping free, “to stand here and feel second to something that should’ve never happened?”

“I’m man enough to own this, but I’m beggin’ you—don’t walk away without hearin’ me say it one more time. I love you.”

“I waited for you,” you whisper. “I chose you. Again and again, even when you were hard to love, even when you disappeared into yourself and left me wondering if I was enough.”

“You are enough,” he says, voice breaking.

You shake your head. “Not if I have to compete with a fucking baby, Simon. Are you even hearing yourself?”

He swallows hard. Looks down at his hands—those same hands that held you, protected you, pulled you out of every fight like you were something sacred.

Now they just tremble.

The silence that falls is different now. It’s loud. Thundering. Your voice drops to a near-whisper.

“I would’ve taken anything from you, Simon. Anything. Pain. Distance. Even heartbreak. But not this.”

You don’t realize you’re moving until your legs carry you. He doesn’t follow.

Good. Because if he touches you now, you don’t know what you’ll do.

“You broke something,” you say, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you’re holding your ribs together. “And I don’t think you even understand how deep that goes.” You feel physically sick.

He opens his mouth.

“No,” you say quickly, backing up a step. “Don’t. Not right now.”

He’s still kneeling, still watching you like he’s waiting to be punished.

And that makes you ache in some twisted, wrong way, because you can see how sorry he is.

But sorry doesn’t put your heart back together.

Sorry doesn’t unmake a child.

Sorry doesn’t mean he’s not hers now too.

You walk past him. Not fast. Not loud. Just... done.

You pause near the hallway, hand resting on the wall to steady yourself. Your chest rises and falls with the effort of holding it together.

“You need to go,” you say softly.

He still doesn’t move.

“Please, Simon.”

It’s the “please” that does it. The crack in your voice. The finality.

He rises slowly, like gravity’s doubled in strength. You don’t turn around, but you hear the door open. Hear him hesitate. And then you hear it close.

You sink to the floor. With a fucking knife to your chest.

Probably your other Girlfriend

“Remember that little black ashtray you used to have?” Simon calls out from the kitchen, digging around like he’s gonna find something that isn’t his.

You don’t even look up from your laptop. “Ashtray?”

“Yeah,” he says, rattling a drawer. “ You know, black. Square. You always kept your lighters in it.”

You blink. “Simon, I don’t smoke.”

There’s a pause. The kind where you can feel him stopping mid-motion, mentally scrolling through his own memories like an idiot.

And you’re just sitting there, watching it click behind his eyes. That he’s not technically wrong. You did buy a little black dish like that once. Flea market, two bucks, no thought. Tossed your lip balm and keys in it. Forgot it even existed.

You smirk, eyes still on your screen. “Must’ve been your other girlfriend.”

Throwaway line. Joke. Light. Nothing mean. But of course Simon wants a say in it.

“Yeah,” he says. So fast. Like he was waiting to say it. “Could’ve been.”

Silence. Your head tilts slow as hell.

Just your eyes on him like you’re calculating the trajectory of the beer bottle next to him and deciding whether or not prison’s worth it today. “Ha. Ha.”

He freezes. Still holding the drawer like it’s a shield.

“You keep playing with me.” It’s not loud. It’s not even a threat.

But he knows better than anyone—that’s the danger zone. Because your tone doesn’t change. But the air does.

“You make another joke like that,” you nod toward the counter, “and that bottle’s going in your skull. And not the fun way.”

Simon just stares at you for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re bluffing.

You’re not. And he knows it.

Because last month, you ruined a man’s entire bloodline for lying to you during a debrief. Did it barefoot, in pajamas, eating chips. Didn’t even pause the show you were watching.

So no, you’re not the one.

He nods once. “Copy.” Smart.

He moves back to the fridge like nothing happened, but the corners of his mouth are doing that thing, barely-there smirk, like he’s impressed. Like he lives to piss you off.

Because this is foreplay for him.

He wants to see how far he can go before you finally snap and kill him in his sleep. And honestly? You let him.

Because who else is gonna carry the groceries and make you tea and know exactly where your shoulder blades like to be kissed?

He’s annoying. But he’s yours.

Above all that

You weren’t supposed to have favorites. Not in your position, not with your rank. Not when your name came at the top of the roster and his came just far enough below to make everything complicated. But then there was Simon Riley. And he didn’t make anything easy.

You were all bite and calm steel in the field, voice sharp in comms, respect demanded without ever needing to raise your tone. Simon followed orders like muscle memory, always with a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when you spoke. Not insubordination. Not exactly. You never corrected him when he lingered too long. Never questioned the way his eyes swept over your hands when you were giving briefings. Never brought up the first time he kissed you—silent, fast, angry—like it meant nothing and everything all at once.

He always pulled back first. Always reminded you, somehow, that you were above him.

Until tonight.

The door slams shut behind you—his quarters, dark, warm with the faint scent of gun oil and something faintly cedar—and you’re already undoing the top clasp of your vest. His mask is off for once, tossed onto the desk. He looks at you like he’s seconds away from snapping. You can feel it under your skin—coiled tension, barely bridled restraint.

“You said no one’d be up here,” you murmur, voice low.

“They’re not.”

You nod. Start to remove your boots. But his eyes are on you—tracking.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, Riley, I’m gonna think you’ve forgotten who gives the orders.”

That makes his jaw clench. You see the shift in his stance—the struggle not to say what he’s thinking. But then he steps forward, slow, deliberate, like a man approaching a live wire.

“I know who gives the orders,” he mutters, voice rough, low in his throat.

“You sure?” you challenge, lifting your chin. “Because the way you touched me last time didn’t feel like you were trying to be respectful.”

A pause. His eyes drop to your lips. Then lower. You can feel it: the shift, the tipping point. The part where he usually bites it back. But tonight—tonight—he doesn’t.

“I respect you,” he says quietly, standing close enough now that his breath brushes your cheek. “You know that, yeah?”

You nod, eyes narrowed, pulse flickering under your skin. “Yeah.”

“Because what I’m about to do to you…” he leans in, lips grazing your ear, voice wrecked, “…doesn’t look a damn thing like respect.”

Your knees almost buckle.

You’re pinned beneath him on the bed not ten seconds later. Fully clothed still, and he’s grinding down into your hip like it’s killing him to keep from tearing you open right here. His mouth is on your throat—biting, not kissing—and his hands are greedy, desperate, fingers bruising through your shirt like he’s never going to get another chance.

You try to push him off just to assert something, to remind him who’s in charge, but he catches both your wrists and laughs, low, dangerous.

“Oh, no. Not tonight.”

“Simon—”

“I’ve waited too long to stop bein’ careful,” he grits out, rutting harder now. “Too long pretending I don’t want to wreck you every time you walk into a room.”

He flips you over before you can catch your breath, hands firm on your waist, dragging you back against him. You can feel how hard he is through the layers, how far gone.

“You think I don’t know how good you are?” he growls, his mouth at your shoulder, voice so low it makes you dizzy. “Every time you make a call, everyone listens. Me included. Always have.”

His teeth scrape your neck. “But when I’ve got you like this? Dripping. Shaking. Taking what I give you like you need it?”

His fingers slide down—past your waistband, down to where you’re already soaked.

“Tell me who’s giving orders now.”

He Doesn’t Speak Until You’re Holding Him Again

He left again. You didn’t text. Didn’t call. The silence was a wound, and you let it bleed. Because this wasn’t new—not really. Knew what it meant when Simon disappeared. It meant he was scared.

Not of you, but of what loving you was turning him into. Of the parts of himself he thought had been long buried coming alive again. Softness. Need. Hope.

The first time, you thought you’d done something wrong. The second time, you begged him. Just tell me next time. Let me know you’re okay. And still… this time, no word. Just the echo of his absence.

So when the door opened five days later, and he stepped in like he’d never left—eyes bloodshot, hands clenched—you didn’t shout. Didn’t cry. You just stood there, heart hammering. And he looked at you like he didn’t deserve to be looked at at all.

You let him in. Like you always do. And now...now he’s inside you.

You’re in his lap, knees spread wide, body molded to his. You’re facing him, straddling him on the edge of the bed, his cock seated so deep you swear you can’t breathe right. His hands are on your hips—holding, not guiding. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep you anchored there.

Your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, and your forehead is pressed to his. He hasn’t moved in a while. Just breathing. Just there.

You’re soaked. You’ve been like this for minutes—no thrusting, just the feel of him. Heavy and deep and so close it’s maddening. Every nerve in your body tightens with the way he holds you—gentle, but solid. There’s reverence in it. Restraint.

He shakes once. A breath, stuttering from his lips. Then, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The words ghost out of him like a secret. Not really meant for you, but said anyway. You want to respond. Your lips part. But you stop. You don’t say anything.

Because you know. This is how it works. He needs to get it out and you need to let him. He exhales slowly, nostrils flaring. His hands flex on your hips. And then—

“I’ve never… wanted someone like this.” His voice is hoarse. Raw. “Not even close.”

You try to stay still. Try to hold on to the control he’s trusting you with. But your hips shift, barely, and the drag of his cock inside you punches the air from your lungs. Your fingers tighten on the back of his neck, and you clench around him hard enough he groans—quiet, but guttural.

He thrusts—once. Deep. Slow. And it hits everything.

“I thought,” he says, breath ragged, “if I stayed gone long enough… the need would go away.”

Your jaw tenses. Your eyes burn. He moves again, sliding out so slow it feels like a tease, like punishment, and then pushing back in just as carefully. You bite your lip. Hard.

“I missed you like I’d lost a limb.” His voice breaks on it. “And it scared the fuck out of me.”

You can’t help it—you whimper. Soft, but it splits the air between you. He trembles beneath you like the sound undid something inside him.

Your head drops to his shoulder. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head.

“I’ve never made love before,” he whispers. “Not like this. Never wanted to. Never thought I’d get the chance.”

Your breath hitches—words bubbling up in your chest. “Simon—”

“No.” He cuts you off, but not harshly. His mouth finds yours. Kisses you soft. Slow. Tongue barely brushing. “Let me… let me say it before it eats me alive.”

You nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak again.

He rolls his hips. Slow. So unbearably slow it hurts. Your body clenches without permission, and your nails bite into his shoulders.

He doesn’t stop. “I’m scared every time I touch you,” he says, breath trembling.

You moan. Quiet. A sob in disguise. He feels it—feels your body tighten again and holds you through it, arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

“Not because I don’t want to… but because I do.” Another thrust—long and deep, dragging over every place that lights your nerves. “So much it makes my hands shake.”

They are. Shaking. One of his hands slides up your spine, broad palm stroking over the back of your shirt, grounding you.

“I don’t know how to be that and still be me.” Your throat closes.

He’s fucking you like the rhythm is synced to his heart. Every motion slow, devastating, steady. Not stopping. And you—God—you’re falling apart. Silently.

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out. Just air. Just trembles. Because your body is trying to fall apart but you won’t interrupt him. You won’t.

He feels it. He holds you closer.

“I want to be soft with you,” he breathes. “I want to show you every part I’ve kept hidden. Even the ones I hate.”

Your eyes flood. Your arms shake. He doesn’t stop. And it builds.

He’s holding you still while he confesses, while he fucks you like he’s memorizing every inch of you, every sound you try to suppress. The burn of him inside you is constant, every drag slow and torturous, but it’s the emotion in it that’s ruining you.

And then, “I love you.” It’s not shouted. Not grand.

Just true. True.

“I love you so fucking much it makes me sick.”

That’s it. Your body gives out. Orgasm hits like a wave crashing into bone.

You cry—fully cry—as your body pulses around him, thighs trembling, face buried in his neck, broken sounds slipping from your lips without shame. It’s too much. It’s everything. It’s him.

He holds you.

Doesn’t move faster. Doesn’t chase his own. Just stays inside, deep and grounding, his arms wrapped around you like protection itself. He whispers into your hair, breath catching.

“I’m still not done talking.”

Your heart splits open. You nod—barely—too ruined to do anything else.

And he starts again. Moving, slow. Again. Deeper. Not done with you. Not done speaking.

“I thought I was past this,” he murmurs, his voice steady now. “Past loving anyone like this.”

You tremble in his arms.

“But I want everything with you. All of it.”

You cry again—but it’s quieter this time. Softer. Acceptance blooming behind the ache. He kisses your temple. Keeps going. Keeps loving you with his body.

“I don’t want to leave anymore.”

And then—he falls quiet. His rhythm shifts just slightly. Not faster, but fuller. Like he’s focused now. Intent. You feel the change before he speaks again—his breath warm at your ear, his hand sliding between your bodies to touch you where you’re already aching.

“You’ve got one more for me, haven’t you?”

Your breath stutters. “You can give me another,” he whispers, voice low and reverent. “Just one more.”

You nod—but it’s a broken nod, lips parted, unable to speak.

“Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart again.”

He moves with purpose now—still slow, still devastating, but direct. His fingers rub slow circles, his cock dragging deep, hitting that spot inside that makes your spine arch and your mouth open in a sob.

You clutch at him, arms tight around his shoulders, every nerve lit up again. “Simon” you gasp, “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re mine. Let me have it.”

And you do. You fall apart again, right there in his arms—louder this time, trembling through it, voice breaking on his name. It hits hard. Fast. Completely. He doesn’t stop until your body’s shivering and twitching from overstimulation, tears streaking your cheeks, your lips parted and gasping for air.

Only then—only after you’ve given him everything—does he let go.

He buries himself deep and stays there, trembling as he spills into you with a quiet, broken sound. Not loud. Not frantic.

Just your name. Breathed like a prayer. Like relief.

And then he’s holding you again—really holding you—his chest rising against yours, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other stroking your thigh, grounding you.

You’re both shaking. But neither of you pull away.

⚜ 𝔒𝔑𝔈-𝔖ℌ𝔒𝔗𝔖 ⚜ little self-contained stories. sometimes tender, sometimes filthy. always him.

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - my personal favorites (i love all my fics dearly)

• 𝑵𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑬’𝑺 𝑫𝑰𝑺𝑮𝑼𝑰𝑺𝑬 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. — smut he brings you to a lodge tucked deep in the trees, the scent of pine heavy in the air. he never says it’s for you—but it is. and out here, he loves you fully. loudly. shamelessly.

• 𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑶𝑬𝑺𝑵’𝑻 𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑵, 𝑰 𝑭𝑬𝑨𝑹 ࣪ ִֶָ☾ — soft!simon | stubborn love he’s a lot more stubborn when sick.

• 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑺, 𝑵𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑰𝑺𝑺𝑼𝑺 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. — infidelity | smut he fucks you with his wedding ring still on, and you thank him like it means he chose you. maybe he did.

• 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀 𝑯𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝑴𝑬 ࣪ ִֶָ☾ — fluff | clingy!simon | domestic softness Simon doesn’t beg, but the way he looks at you when you leave feels like you’re tearing his heart out.

• 𝑺𝑰𝑴𝑶𝑵 𝑫𝑶𝑬𝑺𝑵’𝑻 𝑫𝑶… ࣪— slowburn | emotional vulnerability | softness he doesn’t name he doesn’t do nicknames, cuddles, or long looks—except with you. and only when he thinks you’re not watching.

•𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑲𝑵𝑶𝑾 𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬 𝑯𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑰𝑺 𝑨𝑻 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. — smut | teasing the kind of hunger only Simon can satisfy—gruff, growly, and completely yours.

• 𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑳𝒀 𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑵𝑨𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑨𝑵𝑺 — somnophilia-adjacent | gentle smut | slow burn dawn breaks with touches meant to keep you half asleep and fully aching.

• UNNAMED — angst | midnight visits | unspoken grief no words, only rain and shadows, and two bodies tangled in desperate silence.

• 𝑨 𝑫𝑨𝒀 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑴𝑶𝑴𝑺 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝒀𝑶𝑼 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. — fluff a soft, grateful moment dedicated to every kind of mother—human or furry.

• 𝑫𝑶𝑵’𝑻 𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑮𝑬𝑻 𝑾𝑯𝑶 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑩𝑬𝑳𝑶𝑵𝑮 𝑻𝑶 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.— possession | fluff a reminder whispered in the dark, because Simon never lets go.

• 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑨𝑮𝑨𝑰𝑵 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.— fluff that awful time you got a UTI because you didn’t pee after, and it ruined both you and Simon for days... and maybe the future.

• UNNAMED ࣪ ִֶָ☾.— wedding fluff | mouth-feeding Simon mouth-feeds you the wedding cake, and 141 collectively lose their minds.

• 𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑰𝑺 — angst | messy feelings it was supposed to be over... or not.

• 𝑩𝑨𝑪𝑲𝑺𝑯𝑶𝑻𝑺 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑲𝑰𝑺𝑺𝑬𝑺 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.— smut

• 𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑨𝑾 𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑶𝑭 𝑰𝑻, 𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑶𝑭 𝑰𝑻— possessive ghost minding his own business isn’t his forte—especially when it comes to you.

•𝑭𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑹𝑬𝑭𝑳𝑬𝑪𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺 — smut Simon fucks you in front of four different mirrors—no hiding, no shame.

• 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑬𝑺 𝑰 𝑪𝑹𝑶𝑺𝑺𝑬𝑫 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝒀𝑶𝑼 ࣪ ִֶָ☾ — smut your bf dad showing your worth — and fucks you accordingly.