#141

Simon Riley is a loverboy warnings: established relationship, mentions of pornography, very fluffy Simon Riley blurb

He loved you, that much was obvious. Your initials were carved onto the handles of his guns— messy handwriting, all passion and longing— and a wrinkled polaroid of you accompanied him everywhere he went. He'd stick it to the wall beside wherever he slept, stick it to the ceiling if he got to sleep in a bunk bed (one of those with the loose springs that shriek at every movement, that poked into his back and made him miss your touch more than ever).

Johnny had asked him about it one day, half mocking Simon, he was just in disbelief that their closed off lieutenant had found someone, and reasonably so. It was late at night, they'd been sitting still for hours, the target had yet to exit the building they were watching— Price had told them to wait.

So, he tried to make small talk, gossip a little. He said he'd seen that old polaroid in his quarters, seen it get tucked away in his pocket, tacked to walls and ceilings. He'd seen Simon hold it in his hands when he sat in bed— his breathing leveled, face hidden by his mask, mumbling something under his breath before he laid down to sleep. He'd made some stupid comment like what porno she sneak out of?, a comment that would usually earn him a chuckle and a tap on the arm, but that this time earned him a slap to the back of his head and a grumble.

"Respect my bird, Soap." He'd said, deep voice coated in annoyance, almost venomous.

It was obvious he loved you when, you came to pick him up after he got back from being deployed. Obvious in the way his gloved hands immediately found yours, in the way a weight seemed to lift off your shoulders; in the way his gaze, concealed with a balaclava, was so soft, so loving.

They all heard it in his voice, sweet, almost saccharine; saw it in the way you'd touch him, and he'd let you. You could poke his side after making a joke, and he wouldn't flinch, wouldn't bend your arm back or slap it away; he'd laugh, he'd hold your wrist in his big, calloused hand and laugh lightheartedly.

Soap and Gaz watched, enthralled, as you completely took over Simon's personal space, your hands moving up and under his t-shirt, your face settling in the crook of his neck as you held him close, squeezing him tight "to make up for lost time". They watched as Simon grunted out complaining, but lifted up the lower section of his balaclava and kissed your forehead, then your lips.

Ghost was their closed off lieutenant, but Simon Riley was completely wrapped around your little finger, and he loved every second of it.

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Being a lieutenant was hard. Being a husband was hard. Being a father was hard. Being the three was tough. It was a busy life for Simon. The hardest part wasn't the patience, the never ending tasks, nor the physical exhaustion, but the logistics of them all. 

Every time you tried having some sexy time with your husband, one of the kids would knock on the door, asking for a glass of milk or to check for monsters under the bed. Every. Single. Time. It almost felt like it was on purpose. And you would oblige because like any good mother would. He couldn't remember the last time you did it, so he was at his wits end. 

After a long day of never ending meetings and scolding rookies, Simon came back home wanting only one thing: You. But when he came home, you were busy as always. So he had to busy himself to think about something else. He helped with dinner, giving the kids a bath and tidy around the house. 

When you finally put the kids to sleep, Simon picked you up and carry you over his shoulder. You thought he would take you to the bedroom, but he couldn’t risk his night being ruined once again. He had to make sure you could be somewhere unreachable, so he took you to the garage. 

the two of them decide to play a little game... guess who's who?

at first it's easy, you know the cocks you love. every vein, every ridge, every.little.detail.

but then whose cock is inside your gummy walls?

you didn't recognize the hands that roamed across your naked body, groping you.

noticing your rising panic, a voice shushed you. a voice you knew. johnny mactavish.

seconds after, another unknown pair of hands joined, teasing your clit as johnny's dick bullied your insides.

"you like that, hm, honey?"

kyle...

you'd recognize that nickname everywhere.

husband!simon who can't sleep anywhere else. warnings!: pregnancy, mild angst.

Your pregnancy hadn’t been easy. Pain, loneliness, discomfort, breakdowns — and more pain.

Simon had been there when he could. Even as your husband, he couldn’t stay with you through all of it. He had to work.

The missions started getting longer. But you understood. You loved him. And you’d accepted this the moment you said “I do” in that quiet city hall.

You never complained — because he loved you. And you loved him. At least, he was there for the birth.

After your daughter was born, Simon — or rather, Ghost — went back to routine. Two months home, two months away. Sometimes more. Sometimes only two weeks.

Now, Ghost lay on a makeshift “bed” — a stiff mattress, surrounded by snoring grown men. It stank of sweat, blood, and war-worn exhaustion. Nothing he wasn’t used to.

But sleep didn’t come easy. Not for Ghost. Not for Simon. He’d always struggled with sleeping in new places. Ironic, really.

That night, he’d only slept for two hours. It was 2AM. He glanced around — everyone else was asleep.

He grabbed the disposable phone. Every mission, Task Force 141 got one. He still wasn’t great with tech, but a notification... that he noticed.

A new message.

He opened it.

It was a photo. You, holding your daughter in your arms. You were smiling, exhausted but glowing. The baby asleep, peaceful.

The message read: “We’re okay. Don’t worry. We love you 💕”

Simon — because for a few seconds, he wasn’t Ghost anymore — didn’t know how you’d gotten the number to that burner phone. Didn’t matter.

His chest warmed.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

He stared at the photo for a while. You looked tired. He noticed. And guilt settled in. Your daughter was perfect, in her little white onesie covered in tiny stars.

Simon missed you. Both of you.

He shut the phone off. Closed his eyes.

And that night...

GUYS GUYS

GHOAP CANNON HOLLY SIHTTTTTT