John Price is a private man. He doesn’t even like sharing his personal life with the 141. So imagine their surprise when you, John’s wife, visits the base on your day off.
“Mrs Price? Huh?.. didn’t know cap has a sister?..” Gaz says, looking at the visitor logs. “Didn’t know he had a family,” Simon says dryly. His eyes look up and start scanning, trying to find the one person he doesn’t recognize. “.. must be in the office,” he mumbles to himself. Simon is always perceptive, always on alert.
Johnny walks by, a shit-eating grin on his face. Simon raises his eyebrows and Kyle asks, “who did you just snog?” Johnny lean in close, like he’s sharing a secret. “Just found cap and a woman in his office..” Johnny’s eyebrows wiggle with suggestion. “.. you mean?..” Kyle’s voice trails off, his face scrunching up at the idea. Johnny laughs, putting his hand on Kyle’s shoulder for a moment. “Aye.. Cap is still young,” he says.
“..thought the ‘Mrs. Price’ was his sister..” Simon comments and Johnny’s face crumbles as the idea settles in.
“..so.. the lassie?..” Johnny shudders. Simon, unsurprisingly, is the one who chuckles, realizing that Price is just as depraved as he is.
“Bye! I’ll see you for dinner, and don’t you dare be late or I will max out your card,” you threaten price as you leave his office, leaning against the doorframe as you jokingly glare at him. “Yes ma’am,” Price says lowly and with a predatory look in his eyes.
As you leave, you give the boys a small wave and a sweet smile. Kyle is the first one to move, stalking towards the office with a “explain.” John raises an eyebrow and a low, “excuse you,” to Kyle because he doesn’t know what he’s being reprimanded for so early in the morning.
“Ye bassa,” Johnny says to John with a slight shake of his head. “Never thought you’d be into something so taboo,” Simon comments. John is beyond confused at his men.
“..huh?” He looks between the three men like a deer in headlights. “Your sister, cap? Really?” Kyle puts his hands on his hips like a sassy mom. “.. wot?.. don’t have a sister, Garrick,” John says with slow understanding of what’s going on.
“That was my wife, bloody idiots,” John says with an eye roll. He opens his drawer and pulls out a wedding photo of him and you.
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id love to read more in “simon’s toll” au , specifically 18+ scenes when it’s the first time we hook up(?..) with him and/or when he has already realised his feelings towards us but haven’t confessed yet. i don’t know if you’re ok with writing 18+ since i didn’t see any of your works like that though
0200 Hours | WC 2.4k | an: so i just delved deeper into the vondel scene because that is when we first hook up with simon in "Simons toll". However it was small and rushed. This is my first time writing anything 18+ (if its nt enough detail im sorry) but ill do anything for you anon.
Simon sat at the laminate table of the safehouse kitchen, staring at a section of peeling floral wallpaper that looked like it had been rotting since the Cold War.
He was still in his tactical pants and a black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders, the balaclava rolled up over the bridge of his nose to allow him to drink. The whiskey in his glass was cheap, corrosive, and entirely necessary. It burned on the way down, a sharp, chemical heat that distracted from the phantom smell of stagnant canal water and copper still lining his sinuses.
He heard your footsteps before you appeared in the doorway. He always heard you. He had spent the last year cataloging your operational footprint until your gait was as familiar to him as the recoil of his own rifle.
You walked in wearing grey sweatpants and a faded shirt, your hair still damp from a shower that clearly hadn't scrubbed the exhaustion from your bones. You looked hollowed out. Dark bruised shadows sat heavy beneath your eyes, and the scar cutting through your eyebrow looked stark against your skin.
You didn't ask if you could join him. You didn't wait for an invitation. You simply crossed the cracked linoleum, took the bottle of whiskey from the center of the table, and drank straight from the neck.
You swallowed, grimacing as the cheap liquor did its work, and set it down with a heavy thud.
"Can't sleep," you said. Your voice was gravelly, stripped of its usual crisp, military cadence.
"Close your eyes and pretend," Simon replied, staring straight ahead at the wall.
"Every time I close mine, I can still smell the canal water." You shifted, turning your head to look at him. It was a stripped-bare look. The kind of unguarded, desperate stare people only offered when they were too mentally depleted to hold up their shields. "How do you turn it off, Simon?"
Hearing his name in that quiet, empty room felt like a physical blow. The whiskey was already eroding the concrete walls he usually kept around his chest.
"I don't," he admitted, his voice a low, rough scrape in the quiet kitchen. "I just find a smaller box to put it in."
He should have stood up. He should have walked out of the room, closed his door, and locked it. His tactical instincts were screaming at him that the perimeter was compromised, that this proximity was dangerous. But he was bone-tired. He was so incredibly tired of fighting the current.
He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the collar of your shirt, refusing to track upward. If he looked you in the eyes, he would have to acknowledge the humanity in this. He would have to acknowledge that it meant something.
You reached out, your fingers hovering for a fraction of a second before they settled on the heavy slope of his shoulder.
Simon’s breath hitched, a harsh, jagged sound behind the cotton of his mask. He didn’t move to touch you. He kept his massive hands anchored to his own thighs, his knuckles turning white from the pressure of holding himself back. He was a weapon, and weapons did not fire without authorization. He would not indulge himself. He would not take a single thing from you unless you handed it to him.
"Riley," you whispered, the exhaustion bleeding into something heavier, something darker.
It was the name that did it. The name was the crowbar prying at the seams of a door he had spent years meticulously welding shut.
"Don't," he managed to say, though the word lacked any actual command. It was a weak, fractured defense.
"It’s okay." Your hand slid from his shoulder, moving up to cup the side of his neck, your thumb brushing against the rough edge of his rolled-up mask. "It's okay, Simon."
That was it.
When Simon moved, it wasn’t with a frantic, mindless lack of control, but with a deliberate, surgical desperation. He reached out and gripped your waist, his large hands spanning the sides of your hips, fingers biting into the soft fabric of your sweatpants.
He pulled you forward, lifting you with a startling, effortless surge of strength, and pressed your back against the edge of the kitchen counter. The linoleum creaked beneath his boots as he stepped entirely into your space, parting your knees so he could bracket himself flush against you.
The physical impact of it, the sudden, overwhelming weight of him against your frame, was a shock to the nervous system. He was a massive man, entirely built of dense muscle and heavy tactical gear, and for the first time, he was using that physical presence not to shield you from gunfire, but to pin you in place.
His breathing was harsh, ragged behind the cotton of his rolled up balaclava. He kept his eyes wide open, his gaze locking onto yours with the terrifying, predatory focus of a sniper finding his mark.
His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris, leaving nothing but an endless, pitch black well of need. He watched you. He cataloged every stuttering breath you took, every micro expression, every flush of heat rising up your neck.
His hands moved to your clothes, pulling off and tugging the fabric aside with an efficiency that was entirely utilitarian. But when your hands came up to reciprocate, reaching toward his face to push the rolled-up fabric of his balaclava the rest of the way off, his reaction was instantaneous.
He caught your wrist.
He didn't squeeze hard enough to bruise, but the grip was immovable, an iron clamp locking your hand in mid air. He would give you his body to burn off the adrenaline, but he would not give you his face. He would not give you his humanity.
Instead of pulling your hand away, you relaxed your wrist, letting your fingers go soft. You tilted your hand, sliding your fingertips delicately, purposefully, underneath the rolled edge of the balaclava.
Your fingers mapped the hidden terrain of his face in the dark. You traced the heavy, raised ridge of a scar slashing across his cheek, the sharp angle of his jawbone, the rough stubble he hadn't bothered to shave in days.
It was terrifying. It was the most invasive, deeply intimate thing anyone had done to him in a decade. His tactical mind yelling at him to pull back, to re-establish the perimeter.
But the truth, the horrible, rotting truth he couldn't admit out loud, was that he loved it.
He was starving for it. He leaned his weight into your hand by a fraction of a millimeter, his eyes fluttering for just a microsecond, drinking in the physical proof that he wasn't entirely repulsive, before snapping back into focus.
When you shifted, a low, breathy sound escaping your throat as you tilted your head to chase his mouth, he was ready for it.
You turned your face inward, your lips parting to seek his, and his hand shot up. His large, calloused palm caught your jaw, his long fingers wrapping firmly around the side of your face, his thumb resting heavily against your cheekbone.
He physically stopped your momentum. With a slow, deliberate pressure, he redirected your face away from his, forcing you to look over his shoulder, denying you the contact.
Kissing was a promise. Kissing required sharing breath, sharing a piece of the soul that Simon firmly believed he no longer possessed. If he kissed you, it became real. If he treated it like a tactical extraction, all physical friction and brutal efficiency, he could pretend it was just biology.
He didn't say a word, but the message was clear. Not that. Never that.
The restriction only heightened the feverish intensity of the air between you. With the avenue of traditional intimacy violently shut down, the physical sensation of two bodies became the only language left.
When he finally settled into the space between your thighs it was unlike anything you could have ever imagined simon to be. If nit for the immediate “fuck..” that fell from his lips you would have thought it was only you feeeling things.
The connection was heavy, grounding, and completely devoid of gentleness. He gripped the edges of the laminate counter on either side of your hips, caging you in, using his massive body to anchor you.
“Is that what you like?” He whispered
Every movement was measured, powerful, and deeply intentional. He watched you unravel. He kept his eyes locked on your face, tracking the way your head fell back, the way your teeth dug into your lower lip to stifle a sound.
He was treating the act the exact same way he treated a breach, methodical, utterly focused on the physical execution, stripping away the emotional debris that threatened to suffocate him.
But beneath that cold, operator level detachment, he was agonizingly attuned to you. He felt the rapid flutter of your pulse beneath the hand still gripping your jaw.
The bastard smiled at you.
A smirk, genuine.
He felt the exact moment the tension in your spine peaked, the way your nails bit into the heavy fabric of his shirt.
He adjusted his pace the very second he sensed the friction was too much, slowing down, altering his angle with hyper-vigilant precision.
Either way you were moaning in his ear.
Either way he was ruining you for any other man.
And with no shame thus time he could admit in his head that he loved that too.
"Keep your hands on me," he commanded, a rough scrape of sound against your ear as he set the pace. When you dug your nails into his shoulders, grounding him, he let out a harsh exhale. "That's it."
The heat in the freezing safehouse kitchen spiked. The smell of cordite, rain, and fear was entirely replaced by the heavy, musky scent of skin and desperate friction.
Simon’s breathing grew harsher, losing its controlled, tactical rhythm, turning into a ragged scrape of air. He pressed his face harder into your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone, a threat of a bite that never fully materialized, a shadow of a kiss that he refused to finish.
He chased the release like a man trying to outrun a blast wave. And when it finally hit, when the tension snapped and you both fractured in the quiet dark of the kitchen, his grip on your jaw tightened for one fleeting, desperate second.
A low, guttural sound tore out of his throat, completely involuntary, and he finally, for the first time all night, let his eyes slide shut, letting his heavy head drop entirely onto your shoulder.
For ten seconds, the world was utterly silent. There was only the frantic, overlapping sound of your breathing, the squeak of the counter, and the heavy, grounding weight of his heart hammering against your chest.
The separation was instantaneous. He stepped back so fast the cold air rushed in to fill the space. He adjusted his clothing with quick, sharp movements, yanking the balaclava firmly down over his mouth and chin.
He straightened his spine, rolling his shoulders back, locking his eyes into the flat, dead stare of the Ghost.
"This means nothing," he said. His voice was entirely devoid of warmth. "This stays between us."
He waited for the backlash. He wanted you to yell, to slap him, to break the arrangement so he wouldn't have to.
Instead, you just slowly pulled your clothes back into place. You slid off the counter, your bare feet hitting the floor without a sound.
looked at him with a flat, impenetrable tactical evaluation, and gave a sharp nod. If you were hurt, if he had successfully wounded you, you buried it beneath layers of discipline just as thick and calloused as his own.
"Loud and clear, Lieutenant."
You walked past him, your shoulder brushing his arm, and disappeared into the hallway, leaving him standing entirely alone in a kitchen that suddenly felt entirely too large, and entirely too cold.
The next year was followed by what was essentially bleeding hearts of toxicity. It was a vicious cycle of starvation and gluttony.
Simon would go days barely looking at you, punishing himself for wanting you, punishing you for existing in his space. He would build up the walls, swear he was done, and then the adrenaline of a near-miss op would hit, and he would break.
You would find each other in a supply closet, or a hotel room, driven by a gnawing, feral need, and take what you both wanted. What you both needed.
He indulged.
He would let you slide your hands under his vest. He would whisper rough, fragmented praise against your collarbone,"Good," "Hold still," “Mine for a minute”. taking more and more ground.
And then, the moment it was over, He would snap the cord, break it off, turn to ice, and leave you standing in the dark.
The worst part of it was that you never fought him. You never demanded a kiss, never demanded a title. You just accepted it.
Three months in, he tried to stop it entirely. He pulled you into an empty debrief room and, with a voice like dead winter, told you the arrangement was over. It was a liability. It was done.
He stood there, bracing for the argument. He wanted you to tell him he was a coward. He needed you to show him that this mattered.
Instead, you just adjusted your holster, looked him dead in the eye, and said, "Understood, Lieutenant. Won't happen again."
And then you walked out.
But outside of those dark, locked rooms, you were the perfect unit.
That was the most jarring contrast of all.
In the daylight, surrounded by the 141, you were a seamless, well-oiled machine. You grew closer, your banter sharpening, matching Johnny's jokes and Kyle's sarcasm with a dry wit that made Simon huff quiet laughs behind his mask.
In the field, you moved like an extension of his own body. He trusted you with his six; you trusted him with your life.
No one suspected a thing. Price would watch the two of you clear a compound with wordless precision and nod approvingly at the platonic, professional bond his lieutenant had finally managed to forge.
Johnny would tease you at the mess hall table, completely oblivious to the fact that just six hours prior, Simon had been entirely buried inside you, his hands bruising your hips, his voice a low, rough rasp in your ear.
It was a masterclass in deception.
You were his most trusted operator in the light.
And his deepest, darkest secret in the night.
It was an unsustainable fracture of a relationship, and Simon knew, with a creeping sense of dread, that eventually, the fault lines were going to shatter you both.
I hope that was good. i hope so. I really love reading your requests and ideas
i should have made a version w/ his actual mask in hindsight. i'll do it later
I think I'm slowly beginning to understand horses. perhaps. just a bit. like it needs work but I believe I am getting there, bit by bit. painting the fur is still really fun, i think that alone is what keeps me going for these
Graves lounged against the headboard, the soft glow of the bedside lamp painting his shoulders in warm amber. You’re half‑dozing, fingers idly tracing the cool metal of his dog tags that dangle from the nightstand, the chain slipping between your fingertips like a quiet habit you’ve picked up over the weeks.
He watches you for a moment, a slow smile spreading across his sun‑kissed face. “pretty, aint it?’,” he drawls, his texas(?) tone rolling low and lazy.
Before you can answer, his hand slides over yours, gentle but firm, lifting the chain from your grasp. He brings it to his lips, pressing a brief, affectionate kiss to the metal before slipping it over your head. The tags settle against your chest, resting just above the rise of your breast, the weight familiar yet strangely new.
“They look better on you than they ever do on me,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the side of your neck where the chain rests. His eyes flicker down, catching the glint of the tags against your skin, and a soft chuckle escapes him. “You wearin’ my name like a badge, huh? Guess I oughta be proud.”
You grin, feeling the heat of his gaze settle on you like a warm blanket. “Only if you promise not to steal ‘em back,” you tease, nudging his shoulder with yours.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling low in his chest. “Never. I like seein’ ’em there. Makes me think of you every time I touch ‘em.” His hand trails down your arm, fingertips lingering over the soft skin of your wrist before he shifts, settling between your thighs. The room fills with the quiet rhythm of your breathing, the occasional sigh, and the faint creak of the bed as he adjusts.
He leans over you, his forehead resting against yours, breath hot against your ear. “You feel that?” he whispers, voice thick with affection. “My tags, right where my heart beats.”
His hips begin a slow, deliberate press, each movement deliberate and tender, the missionary position allowing him to keep his eyes locked on yours. Every thrust draws a soft gasp from you, and his hands roam—palms flattening against your ribs, fingers splaying over the tags, feeling the metal shift with each breath. He steals glances at the way the tags catch the light, a proud smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire. “Wearin’ my name like it’s yours.”
You arch into him, a breathy laugh escaping your lips. “Only ‘cause you let me.”
His thumb finds the spot just below your jaw, tracing slow circles as he kisses the corner of your mouth. The tension builds, sweet and unhurried, each touch a promise, each whisper a reminder of the easy intimacy that settles over you both after a long day.
When the climax finally comes, it’s a shared sigh, a quiet explosion of warmth that leaves you tangled together, his dog tags still resting against your chest, a quiet testament to the night’s soft, playful devotion. He pulls you close, his cheek resting against your hair, and whispers, voice thick with sleepy contentment, “Best damn accessory I ever gave ya, darlin’.”
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Task Force 141 is thrown into the multiverse. Like THROWN IN. Can’t get back to their world until they’ve fixed what their captor has fucked up to high hell.
