#mintfullywrites

[mintfullyyours]

Thinking about patching up ex-husband Simon Riley. He comes in with the cloak of darkness not close to sunrise, a witching hour of sorts. Three slow deliberate knocks on the other side of your door. No more and no less. Staring at the mahogany frame, you could ignore him. It would be for the best.

But ghosts tend to haunt all night.

So you'll let him in.

You always do.

Bloodied knuckles with a nasty gash on his upper eyebrow. He'll hoist you onto the bathroom countertop with your legs spread as he steps between them. Firm hands grip your waist, grounding you in your stupid decision to let your ex back into your life. Again. He doesn't flinch as you swipe the alcohol soaked towel over his eyebrow wound. Determined eyes search your face in hopes you'll crack under his gaze.

"Ask me what happened." He whispers.

"No." you dab the towel more firmly on his eyebrow as it soaks the raging red liquid.

Simon grabs your wrist and leans down, his lips pressing into the shell of your ear. "Really?" Your heart pounds in your chest, as your body betrays you for your ex -- feeling a heat set every fiber of you ablaze. His teeth grazing your skin as he noses his way down the column of your neck and breathes in your unyielding scent. He knew the effect he still had on you and you hated yourself for it.

"Birdie really doesn't wanna know what I did to that bloke you went out with last week?"

part 2 here!!!

[mintfullyyours]

Thinking about finding out you're Simon's phone wallpaper. Although part of me thinks he might still have a flip phone too. Because he very much wants to be off the grid.

“Simon Riley! We’re running so late!” You yell at the bottom of the steps trying to find call attention to your boyfriend. Swiping a shoe from the floor you quickly hop around, trying to look a bit presentable for the military ball. 

“Love, I can’t find my phone.” He grumbles from the top of the steps.

You roll your eyes, “We’ll find it when we get back, it’s not like you’ll be using it much.”

Simon shrugs as he reaches the last step of the staircase and watches you in your flurry daze. The emerald green, floor length dress hugging your body. A heat warms the lower half of his body. Christ, he couldn't wait for the night to be over and get you out of your dress later tonight.

“Price's gonna have our heads if we’re late.” You mumble incoherent words as you look in the kitchen and see his black case on the marble countertop. You reach for it, “Found it, babe!”

You click the home button to check the time and see 8:3––

Wait a second?

Simon comes into the kitchen, one shoe on and attempting to place the other. “Ah, thank you.” He presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Hold up.” You point as his phone, “Am I your lock screen?” You ask, biting back a smile. 

He freezes. 

A deer caught in headlights.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“And of all the pictures you chose that one?”

He shrugs and clicks the home button to look at the screen. It was a picture of you sprawled on top of the sofa, mouth agape and sleeping soundly. If you squinted, was that glisten at the corner of your mouth -- drool?

“I can change it if you want." He offers. But in reality he loved that photo. He loved how much you trusted him, enough to let all your defenses down.

“Love, that’s actually so sweet.” You smile and press a soft kiss onto his lips and pull the black KN95 mask up over his mouth. 

“Totally better than the one of you on my phone.” With a wink, you hurry out of the kitchen and outside to the awaiting car. It took a second for Simon to register what you were saying before he chases you soon after.

“Hey! Wot you mean by that?!”

[mintfullyyours]

I don't know where this falls in the time line of ex-husband!simon but he's been brewing in my mind and I love him so much. You can read the first part here: patching up exhusband!simon and as always thank you for reading!!

& lmk what you guys think about ex-husband!simon.

thinking about the night of your first date out while "single." You sigh, putting the car in park and resting your forehead against the steering wheel. Jeff. That was his name, right? He wasn’t a bad guy—asked the right questions, paid for dinner, had a steady job that kept him local. A fine first date. Predictable. Safe.

Then why did it feel so… empty?

Rubbing your temples, you tell yourself this is for the best. Stability. Normalcy. That’s what you need. What you deserve, too. Maybe, in time, you’d even believe it. Sliding your key into the door, you frown. It doesn’t click. A chill slithers down your spine as you push it open, your stomach knotting at the sight of the dim light bleeding into the hallway from your bedroom.

You already know who’s inside.

Your breath hitches as you swing the door open, and there he is—Simon, sitting on the edge of your bed, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward. The faint gleam of metal catches your eye. Your engagement ring. It rolls fluidly between his fingers, like a an awful habit he never broke.

His gaze lifts, pinning you in place.

"Took it off, did ya?" His voice is eerily calm, but there’s something coiled beneath it, something ready to snap. "Wonder if he knows you still wear my name."

Your stomach tightens. You take a good look at him—really look at him—and the past five months apart have not been kind. His beard is thicker, his jaw sharper, his frame even larger than you remember. Like he’s been drowning in something darker than loneliness.

"Simon, I’m not in the mood. You can't be in here, shouldn't be in here." Your voice is firm, though your chest heaves with the effort to keep it that way. "Just because you refuse to sign the papers doesn’t mean we’re still together."

A slow, humorless chuckle rumbles from his chest. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and lets the ring settle in his palm before closing his fingers around it.

"That’s where you’re wrong, love."

He stands, and in an instant, he’s in front of you, so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body. His scent—familiar, overwhelming—wraps around you like a pretty string tied in a bow.

His hand trails up your arm, slow, deliberate, until his fingers ghost over your pulse. His eyes drop to your lips, then flick back up, dark and unreadable. The silence was deafening. It was as if he knew the power he still had over you, or at least your body. Simon wedges his muscular thigh between your legs, and your hips buck ever so slightly.

You whimper and he smirks, knowing your body would never betray his.

"You think a piece of paper makes you any less mine?" His grip tightens, not enough to hurt—but enough to remind you just how easy it would be.

"Any less of a Riley?"

You swallow hard. He leans in, lips a breath away from your ear.

"Tell me, dove— and he honest, because you know I hate liars, did he make you feel anything at all?"

tag list

@ebodebo @meheheasasa @thegirlintheshadows101

[mintfullyyours]

Just thinking about Amnesia!Simon. but also sorry if this has been done before... I'm new to the fandom but adore everyone here so much so I wanted to contribute.

Thinking about how your fingers tighten around the sheets as you sit beside him. The hospital room is too bright, too sterile, too wrong. Ghost — Simon —stares at you with blank, unrecognizing eyes, his face unreadable beneath the bandages.

It shouldn't have been like this. It was one mission. One last mission. That's what they always say, right?

Now the man who once knew you better than anyone now doesn't even flinch when you whisper his name.

"'m sorry," he mutters, his voice rough but distant. "I don't... I don't remember you."

Something cracks in your chest, but before the pain fully sets in, he speaks again.

"But I think I should."

Your breath catches.

Ghost leans forward, studying you like you're a puzzle he’s desperate to solve. His fingers twitch, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.

True, that he saw a pretty little thing walk into his forsaken hospital room and wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into her bones. Even through the cotton haze of sleep, something pulled him to her like a moth to flame.

"You'll remember me, Si. Eventually. Or so the doctors say..." You're rambling now because it seemed better than the heavy silence between you.

"You'll remember me because... You love me." You swallow hard, "You always have."

The gold wedding band on your ring finger glints against the hospital light.

It catches Simon's eye.

His jaw tenses, his breath uneven. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asks, "Did I tell you that a lot?"

Your heart clenches.

"No," you admit softly. "But you didn’t have to. I just knew"

Silence stretches between you. Would he remmeber you? Maybe not. The doctors never gave you a real answer.

Then, slow and deliberate, he lifts his hand and brushes his fingers against yours—tentative but protective. Like muscle memory.

Like something inside him still remembers.

[mintfullyyours]

Warnings: fluff

a/n: John Price!BearHybrid meeting his mate at his local bait shop. That's it. Also been playing Cast 'n' Chill on the switch so that's who I'm basing Rusty off!!!!

The bell over the bait shop door gives its familiar, tinny jangle as John Price steps inside, shoulders ducking instinctively even though he’s cleared the frame a thousand times before.

The place smells like cedar, lake water, and worms—home. Rusty’s shop has been his shop for years. Same warped counter. Same crooked rack of lures. Same mounted fish lining the walls like trophies in a hunter’s den.

John stops.

His eyes lift automatically to the far wall.

Where his fish used to be.

The massive northern pike he’d hauled in three summers ago—caught at dawn, fought for nearly an hour, scarred his forearm when the line snapped and he’d gone in after it bare-handed. Rusty had mounted it himself. Pride of the shop. Pride of John.

Except...

“That’s not my fish,” John rumbles.

Rusty looks up from the register, chewing on a toothpick. “Mornin’ to you too, Price.”

John doesn’t move. His bear half stirs under his skin, a low, uneasy roll in his chest.

Mounted where his pike once hung is something… bigger. Sleeker. Darker. A beast of a fish—broad through the body, scales catching the light like polished stone. A perfect catch. A dominant one.

His nostrils flare.

The shop smells different.

Not wrong. Just… new.

“Rusty,” John says slowly, voice dipping into warning. “Where’s my fish.”

Rusty grins.

“Well,” he drawls, leaning his elbows on the counter, “funny thing about that. Got ourselves a new resident in town.”

John’s eyes narrow.

“Yeah?” The word comes out edged.

“Moved in up past the river bend. Quiet type. Damn good with a rod.” Rusty jerks his chin toward the mount. “Caught that beauty last week. Biggest thing pulled outta these waters in years.”

John’s jaw tightens.

His bear bristles.

Male competition is the first, immediate thought—an instinctive, possessive spike. This is his territory. His river. His shop. His wall.

“And you just took mine down?” John growls.

Rusty snorts. “Relax. Yours is safe in the back. But when someone pulls in a catch like that, it deserves the spotlight.”

John stares up at the fish again.

Something about it hums. Not challenge exactly. Not threat.

Recognition.

His heartbeat slows — then stutters.

Rusty squints at him. “You alright there, son? You’re lookin’ a little… fuzzy around the edges.”

John exhales through his nose. “Who is it.”

Rusty’s grin widens, knowing. “She usually comes in ‘round now for bait.”

She.

The word lands heavy.

John barely has time to process it before the bell over the door rings again.

You step inside like a burst of sunlight cutting through pine and shadow.

Boots dusted with trail dirt. Jacket slung open, layers practical but soft. A fishing vest already half-loaded with gear. Hair pulled back just enough to keep it out of your face, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes bright.

You’re smiling—wide and toothy and unguarded, like the world has never once given you a reason not to.

John’s breath catches.

The shop changes.

His bear surges forward so fast it makes his skin prickle, claws itching beneath human hands. The air feels thicker, charged. Every sense snaps to attention.

You smell like river water and pine sap and something warm beneath it all—something that hits him low in the gut and curls there, possessive and awed.

Mate.

The word is instinct, not thought.

Your smile falters slightly when you notice where he’s standing—how big he is, how still. Your eyes flick up to the wall, then back to him.

Then realization dawns.

“Oh,” you say, soft and breathless. You laugh softly, embarrassed, turning toward Rusty. “You actually hung it up?”

Rusty grins. “Couldn’t not.”

Pink blooms across your cheeks.

John feels it like a punch to the chest.

Yours.

His bear practically purrs.

"I didn't mean to replace anyone's, Rusty..." You step closer to the counter, fingers fidgeting with the strap of your vest.

"It's no big deal, I'm sure the fisherman will be fine with it."

John finally turns fully toward you.

You’re smaller than him, but not fragile. There’s strength in the way you stand, confidence in your posture, even now—flustered, blushing, caught.

His eyes soften without his permission.

“That was one hell of a catch,” he says, voice rougher than intended.

Your smile returns, brighter somehow. “Thanks.”

And just like that, the tension shifts.

Not rivalry.

Not threat.

Claim.

Rusty watches the two of you with open amusement. “Well,” he says, clapping his hands once, “seems the river’s got good taste.”

John doesn’t look away from you.

Neither of you do.

Somewhere deep inside him, his bear settles—certain, satisfied.

His fish was never the prize.

You were.

Tag list: @ebodebo @meheheasasa @thegirlintheshadows101 @galactict3a @star-buck-barnes @synamonthy @vylaris @vvenus-child @negomisan @heretoreadanddrinktea @mocalocha @icommitwarcrimes @readingcatinacorner @just-lilita @blackhawkfanatic @spacecrawllerr @vppvrition @tessakate @poisonedsultana @gh1ldh64rt @danika1994 @diseasedclitoris @srileylvr @scaryplanetdestroyer @skyfire93 @calisnewworld

[mintfullyyours]

And they were roommates...

Moving in with Ghost wasn’t the plan.

It was supposed to be temporary, a six-month agreement scribbled on the back of a takeout napkin, rent split right down the middle, chores divided, boundaries respected. Strict. Efficient. Easy.

But nothing about living with Simon Riley turned out to be easy.

The man was built for solitude. He moved through the apartment like he expected the walls to echo back military reports. Every footstep was silent, every cupboard closed with deliberate control. Even the air seemed to tighten when he walked through it.

And yet, somehow, you’d already started to care.

Which was its own problem.

Tonight, though, the problem was dinner.

You stood in the small kitchen, hair tied back, sleeves rolled, analyzing the ingredients on the kitchen counter, while the soft hiss of the shower told you Ghost had just gotten back from a shift. He never stays too long, perks of the job perhaps. You were trying to figure out what you could make with half an onion, butter, old rice, and some sad spinach leaves.

You were halfway through debating whether sautéed spinach could count as a real meal when the bathroom door opened.

Simon padded out, fresh shirt clinging to his chest, hair damp. The skull mask was off—just a towel-dry shadow on the counter. He only wore it outside, but somehow he still felt masked now. Guarded.

He paused in the doorway, watching you from the edge of the room.

“You cookin’?” he asked, voice rough from the steam.

“I’m… attempting to,” you said, lifting the questionable spinach.

On anyone else, the faint curl of his mouth might have been called a smile. “Looks like it’s losing the will to live.”

You snorted. “So am I.”

He hovered there, shifting his weight like he was debating something. Moments with Ghost always came like this—hesitation, calculation, the quiet battle of wanting something versus allowing himself to want it.

Then, in a voice softer than you’d ever heard from him, he said:

“Could make that thing you made your first night here.”

You blinked, “My… first-night thing?”

He nodded once. “The pasta. Creamy one. With the—” He gestured vaguely with a hand. “Stuff in it.”

You stared, “My garlic parmesan chicken pasta?”

His ears flushed, just a little. “Aye. That.”

You straightened up slowly. “You liked it?”

Ghost didn’t say yes. He simply looked away like the confession was too revealing.

And that was as good as yes.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Yeah. I can make that again.”

He was silent for a long beat. You thought he might retreat to his room the way he sometimes did when things felt too intimate.

But instead, he stepped fully into the kitchen.

He opened the fridge.

And your breath caught.

Because the shelves— once nearly empty —were packed. Heavy cream, fresh chicken breast, parmesan, garlic bulbs, parsley, the works. He opened the cabinet door to reveal the exact pasta you used, even the same chili flakes brand you had mentioned once offhand.

Your eyes dragged across the neatly organized rows. Everything you needed. All of it.

You turned to him slowly. “Did you buy all this?”

His jaw flexed. “Wasn’t much.”

“This is like sixty dollars of groceries.”

“A man’s gotta eat.” A pause. “And you make it… well.”

You swallowed.

He’d stocked the fridge with every ingredient for your recipe. Not because he demanded it. But because he quietly wanted it. Wanted something you made. Wanted you, in some carved-out, quiet way he didn’t know how to voice.

You stepped closer to the fridge, running your finger along the parmesan wedge.

“Simon,” you murmured.

He froze like his name struck him somewhere soft.

You turned back to him, a small smile pulling at your lips. “You could’ve just told me you wanted it.”

He didn’t look at you when he answered. “Not used to askin’ for things.”

Your heart squeezed.

“Well,” you said, opening the pasta bag, “you can ask me. Anytime. I don’t mind.”

Simon’s eyes lifted. They lingered on you longer than usual, warmer than they should have for a roommate.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly.

You started cooking, pulling out pans, heating butter, filling the kitchen with scents you knew he remembered.

He lingered close—not touching, not speaking much—but present. Watching your hands like you were defusing a bomb, or maybe creating something he didn’t know how to have.

At one point, he reached past you to grab a bowl from the cabinet. His arm brushed your shoulder— barely, but enough.

You swore he held his breath.

When the pasta was done, you served him first. Habit. Care. Instinct.

He stared at the plate longer than necessary, then at you.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” you said. “I wanted to.”

Ghost swallowed, throat working.

“That’s worse,” he muttered.

“Why?”

He looked down at the plate, at the warmth, the comfort, the thing he hadn’t expected to ever have in a shared space.

“Because,” he said gruffly, “I’m startin’ to get used to it.”

Your chest fluttered. You sat beside him.

“Then maybe it’s okay,” you said. “If you get used to me.”

Simon didn’t answer.

But his knee brushed yours under the table.

And he didn’t pull away.

Taglist: @ebodebo @meheheasasa @thegirlintheshadows101 @galactict3a @star-buck-barnes @synamonthy @vylaris @vvenus-child @negomisan @heretoreadanddrinktea @mocalocha @icommitwarcrimes @readingcatinacorner @just-lilita @blackhawkfanatic @spacecrawllerr @vppvrition @tessakate @poisonedsultana @gh1ldh64rt @danika1994 @diseasedclitoris @srileylvr @scaryplanetdestroyer @skyfire93 @calisnewworld

[mintfullyyours]

creepy older stepbro simon who lurks outside your bedroom door, peaking through the slit of a cracked door, as he watches your mundane routine. You sense him before you see him. A line, a tether that pulls so slightly when he's around. Yet, he never emerges from the darkness of the hallway.

creepy older stepbro simon who keeps a pair of your pretty lace panties stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. It was your favorite too. You swear you're going insane with the way your intimate-wear keeps disappearing from the laundry

creepy older stepbro simon who overhears you crying in your bedroom bc your shitty boyfriend broke up with you and decides to do something about it.

As sleep lulls over your body, you feel the weight of a man sprawl atop of yours. A large hand over your lips as your pretty lace panties are shoved into your mouth. A gag. The smell of something metallic — blood — fills your nose. It’s too dark to see anything. But you know who it is, it’s that tether.

You feel yourself grow wet with want and Simon’s hard cock press into your body.

You whimper.

“Shh” he coos, “I’ll give you a different reason to cry, love.”

The next day, you visit your local coffee shop with hickies blossoming all over your neck & see your ex — with a black eye and a broken nose.

[mintfullyyours]

thinking about how your kids would use "information about parent's dating life" to get what they want.

"Mom said I can't go over to Jessica's. Buuut I think she'd be more inclined to let me if you asked her."

He barely looks up from his phone. "No means no."

His kid sighs, dramatic, before leaning in with a conspiratorial glint in their eye. "What if we trade? I'll tell ya something about Mom’s dating life, and you convince her to let me go."

That makes him pause. Just for a second. Had he missed something?

No. No man was coming into his home—the home he gave you in the divorce, the one he somehow persuaded you to keep because it was the kids’ childhood home too. Too much change wouldn’t be good for them, you’d agreed. You had to agree. It was the right thing.

Besides, he would’ve known if someone was sniffing around. He monitored the cameras daily, the ones you knew about. And the ones you didn’t.

The ones tucked behind the bookcase. Inside the china cabinet. The ones that let him see when you sat at the kitchen table late at night, lost in thought. When you curled up on the couch with a book. When you went to bed alone.

...Right?

But if you’d figured it out—if you were bringing someone in while he wasn’t watching, sneaking around like he wouldn’t find out—

His jaw clenches. He’ll take the bait.

"Depends on what you've got," he says, deceptively casual.

His kid grins, sensing an opportunity. They know their best shot is telling Dad exactly what he wants to hear. So they spill—a time, a location. Something simple, enough to light a fire in him.

He’s already pushing back from the dining table, grabbing his jacket off the rack.

He’d be damned if you were going on this date.

"Will you ask Mom while you're there?" his kid calls after him.

He’s already strapping his boots on when he throws a smirk over his shoulder.

"Rule number one," he teases. "Never negotiate with a terrorist."

Note: i made this vague because I feel like it could be any of them hahah

141: no one can hear you scream prank,

tag list

@ebodebo @meheheasasa @thegirlintheshadows101 @galactict3a @star-buck-barnes @synamonthy @vylaris @vvenus-child @negomisan @heretoreadanddrinktea @mocalocha @icommitwarcrimes @readingcatinacorner @just-lilita @blackhawkfanatic @spacecrawllerr @vppvrition @tessakate @poisonedsultana @gh1ldh64rt @danika1994 @diseasedclitoris @srileylvr @scaryplanetdestroyer @skyfire93 @calisnewworld