To be fair, you were a bit merry yourself.

You were in the comfort of your home, enjoying each other's company and the cheap alcohol when you realized Simon was staring at you. Turns out he'd been staring at you for quite a while. He was definitely inebriated, but it was like he was aware just the same. You saw it in his dark eyes. You would have reflected some more if you weren't tipsy.

"...Marry me."

That roused you from your drunken stupor. You think. You guess. Wait a damn minute. You began giggling. Or maybe you always were giggling. Fuck, you didn't know, didn't care to know, but—"Yer drunk, Siiiii." And still, you giggled.

Wasn't gonna deter your soldier, though. He took another swig of his drink, let it settle, eyes never leaving yours, and said, " 'm not drunk. 'm in love, sweetheart," Oh! ...Oh. Oh shit. "Marry me, luv. Make an honest man outta me, yeah?" Simon punctuated his proposal with a loud burp. When did he take his shirt off?

You couldn't be bothered to care. When didn't he have his shirt off around you? And fuck, maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the way he kept staring at you, drunk in love, or maybe—"SURE!"

Smooth. Real fucking smooth. But it was enough.

Simon leaned in to kiss you. At least, he tried to. That's all you remembered until the next morning when you woke up and there he was, comfortably resting on top of you, him in your arms and you in his.

You would've thought last night was a dream if you hadn't seen the drunken text Simon sent the boys later:

im a missus

Yes, you are, Simon. Yes, you are.

"Use me, sweetheart."

It's your hand clutching his close-cropped hair, pulling him close, and bloody hell, he's right where he needs to be, face buried—no, he's fuckin' smothered between your soft thighs. You don't hear it, you feel it, his hum of pleasure reverberating throughout your body, his greedy tongue making you jump some, clutch his head even tighter, and grab onto anything else you can to keep your balance.

Your soldier couldn't care less. No thoughts. Just wanna be used. Just want to suck and fuck and kiss and make you cum. Want to taste you, want you to invade his senses, love.

It's Simon grabbing your thighs when you try to move away because he knows you're close.

"It's too much, Si..." "Stop fuckin' movin'."

It's Simon upping the ante because he wants you to cum on his face and wants to taste you when he lights up. " 'm right here," Simon coaxes you, harsh grunts aplenty and breathless, "Cum on me, love."

Wish granted.

You're left panting, catching your breath, and trying to keep steady while Simon lights his cigarette on the third try, slightly trembling from the intensity of his own orgasm (fuck, he loved these jeans). It's Simon, dark eyes boring into yours as his ciggy dangles from his lips, sated, used, and ready for more as he inhales the nicotine, tastes your cum, and bloody fuckin' hell, he's intoxicated.

Having a giggle/chuckle fest almost every time you are intimate. It first happened at the beginning of your relationship when you would giggle every time you two kissed. It opened the floodgates, had let that nervous energy out, and Simon was right there chuckling with you. ("Heh—aw, fuck me.")

Swearing up and down that you're gonna fuck each other's brains out but as soon as you hit the bed, you and Simon are out like a light. The last time this happened, he was supposed to go down on you, but the next thing you know, you woke up to him fast asleep with his head on your stomach.

Kissing the bridge of his crooked nose and Simon turning into putty every time. Hell, kissing any and every dent, bruise, and scar, and making your man melt.

A nice round of horizontal tango turning into a cuddle session after you comforted Simon through a charley horse. Poor baby.

Initially making the telly watch you two make sex but turns out whatever you're watching was pretty decent after all so you guys are back to watching the telly again.

Getting hot and heavy one time but you were so intrigued with the mole you discovered on Simon's inner thigh that you spent the next half-hour or so trying to find other moles on his body.

Telling Simon that you "always wanted to do this" and when you get him hot, bothered, and hard, it turns out what you always wanted to do was measure him. His disappointment was immeasurable... even if he was interested to know the number.

Twinning in some way, shape, or fashion whenever you're out together.

Talking mad shit about his snoring but let him tell it, he doesn't say shit when you take up about 80% of the bed, covers, and sleep under him.

Speaking of talking shit, having disagreements like every couple does and when you go to bed, you're angrily cuddling each other. And yes, Simon still wants your kisses in the morning, even if you two are still mad at each other. Simon doesn't give a shit, you're still gonna love on him, dammit. And him on you.

Being mad with Simon when he arrived too late to get the creepy crawler that was harassing you. Harassing you by doing what it does best: be a creepy crawler. Simon tells you you'll have to conquer your fear one day. You tell him to conquer the couch tonight lmao.

Agreeing to disagree about the superior ice cream flavor in the house. It's too bad there's not any of his favorite ice cream in the freezer. There's some of yours, though. Why? You didn't get any because it was so superior that you wouldn't "dare sully it with your hands". Cue the judgemental stare and him eating YOUR ice cream afterward. Rude.

Scaring the ever-living shit out of Simon on the rare occasions he gets to sleep in. He woke up to you sitting up in bed with his mask and paint on. Oh, and he calls bullshit. He did not nearly fall out the bed. Nor did he jump. Okay, Simon.

Chilling and drinking with Simon. Finding out he gets hot and sweaty pretty easily and off comes his clothes. Waking up hungover the next morning and you're the big spoon to a naked and equally hungover Simon. Choosing to do fuck all but sleep it off that day.

Before, resting was like the calm before the storm. It was ingrained in him as a kid, the apprehension in silence, peace being nothing but an illusion before his father struck fear into the family again.

After that, Simon had to busy himself; he had to stay alert for the next thing coming.

When you came along and offered him a chance to rest in the moment, he warily took it, and over time realized that it wasn't bad. It was just... different.

And now, with your relationship strong and well established, Simon takes every opportunity he can to simply... rest.

And rest he does.

You liken him to a cat, your Si-bear, what with the way he nestles under you, the way he leans into your touch, and the way he'll quietly come and make himself comfortable on you whenever you lounge on the couch. He especially enjoys laying between your legs, his head on your stomach, dozing as you run your nails lightly over his scalp.

Rest, then, becomes something Simon looks forward to every time he sees you or comes home. The intimacy he enjoys with you, broad shoulders no longer burdened with work, is reward enough, and sometimes Simon wonders if he'd go through all the bullshit again just to get to this point.

He feels you shift under him and Simon doesn't wonder anymore.

You and Simon got married, and Price was the Best Man. Kyle stood on your side, and Soap was the flower girl. He blew bubbles instead of throwing flower petals because you and Soap thought it would be funnier. There's a picture floating around somewhere of Simon staring rather concerningly at a particularly large bubble Soap blew, too.

You two swearing you're gonna fuck all night long on your wedding night... only to crash as soon as you hit the bed. You didn't even take your clothes off. The sexathon came later. You two just woke up, looked at each other, happy as a pair of clams, and bloody hell, you made an honest man out of Simon fuckin' Riley.

Getting each other gag gifts as a wedding present. You were serious about getting him that cockring weren't you, love? Well, he has all the time in the world to make use of it.❤️

Noticing how relaxed and settled Simon is after you two start your married lives. Well, as relaxed and settled as Simon could be, all things considered, but he's not as anxious. He's... content. Happy.

Simon still can't believe it though. He's married. He's bloody married. You married him. A right bastard like him, at that. Simon makes a promise to himself and you to never turn what you two have into the shit show that defined his parents' union, promises to never become the asshole his father was, and it gives him all the strength he needs to combat his demons. He'll fight them every day if means seeing your smiling face, luv.

Simon also using the fact that he's married for shock value for everyone other than 141. He doesn't really tell the others but also doesn't bother addressing the news when it gets out. He just lets it be. It's amusing, though, seeing the confusion and shock on the other soldiers' faces when they find out. "Wait, Lieutenant Riley's married? He has a missus?" Correction: "I'm the missus."

He also jokes with the rest of 141 on some, "Sorry, lads, 'm an honest bloke now," which makes the others snort. Will also use a variant for you, too. "No can do, lovie, you made an honest missus outta me." Pfft.

You've also taken to calling him the Hubster ("Pretty cute, eh, Si-bear?" ".........") and you're banned from saying it in public lmao.

Similarly, you use the shock value to troll your associates. Your coworkers were not expecting Simon of all people to be the one you married. You call HIM the Missus? ("Sure do.") The way they see it, you two are polar opposites. Well, they do say that opposites attract.

Simon buying a chain for his wedding band for when he deploys because even with the gloves on, he refuses to wear his ring near his gun. It's a symbol of you, one of the best fuckin' things to ever happen to him, and he'll be damned if he ever lets the two touch.

You jokingly suggest that because Simon has really taken to the missus thing and ran with it, he should get it tattooed on him. This being Simon bloody Riley, he goes and does exactly that. The shock on your face was worth it all. Cheers, darling.

Simon wasn't used to pet names. Would roll his eyes at ‘em. Sure, there was ‘Lt.’ and maybe ‘Ghost’ but outside his job, who the bloody hell would consider those pet names? It wasn’t until he met you that he experienced that saccharine twist in his stomach that came with every ‘darling’ or ‘handsome’ or ‘baby’ that fell from your lips and now he’s bloody crazy about them. While still rolling his eyes of course.

And then he realized that you just use pet names in general.

Fuck no, luv.

And just like that, he jealously guards those precious names like he guards the butterflies in his stomach whenever he’s with you. There can only be one Darling Handsome Baby in your life and that’s him. Simon. Fuckin’. Riley.

Kyle and Johnny had taken Simon out again. Good lot, those two. He needed it, desperately so in your opinion.

So when he came home in the wee hours of the morning, pissed beyond belief, so much so that Kyle and Johnny were practically holding him up, well...

You figured Simon didn't know where he was. He'd taken one good look at you, or rather through you if his blurry gaze was any indication, and slurred out, "...'m sorry, luv, but I'm a taken missus."

Yes. Yes, you are, Simon.

You helped the boys get him situated. Simon refused to leave the couch, though. You made Johnny and Kyle crash in the spare bedroom and busied yourself helping your husband out of his clothes. His back would be an outright bitch in the morning. You can't say you didn't warn him. "Yer a good one, mate," Simon slurred as he sluggishly helped you take his shoes off, "Jus' like muh missus."

"That so? What's your missus like?" If you can't beat him, join him.

"Bes' fuckin' thing," he started, burping before laying down on his back. Simon looked at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded, fighting sleep yet two seconds from passing out, "Made o'good stuff, lovin' a bastard like me..." Your heart swelled with love, pride, and a little sorrow. You'll make sure to triple the amount of kisses you give him. After his hangover, that is.

"Yer made o'good stuff, too, mate," he trailed off sleepily, "Gonna get a'good missus like mine..."

"And what if I already have him?" You asked as you draped a blanket over Simon. "...Lucky bloke, then. Kick his ass if he doesn't see it..."

Will do, Simon. Will do.

And when your husband woke up the next day, his back an outright bitch, head throbbing, and cursing Kyle and Johnny to high heaven, you recounted every single word he said.

And yeah, he knows he is, but it still felt bloody fuckin' amazin' hearing it from you.

"You're so handsome, Si-bear..."

A beat. Fuck, he was more quick-witted than this. Normally, but he felt it all, though. Felt his breath hitch, his throat tighten, his heart fucking soar. Felt it all, Simon did, and it was more intense than any damn battlefield he'd ever been on.

"'Course I am, luv." Real bloody smooth, Riley, trying to save face like that, but you'd already seen the telltale signs of his face heating up and your grin got wider.

Bloody hell, you'd be the death of him.

You never shied away from Simon. Every scar, burn, and dent told a story, each one more poignant than the last, drawn upon angular features, dark eyes, and a frame too powerful to describe, and you reckon Simon's a masterpiece.

So when you say it time and time again, each scar, burn, and dent newer than the last, Simon embraces it—never in halves—but the impact hasn't lessened, and still you take his breath away.