lieutenant!simon riley can’t stay focused knowing reader is waiting for him at home

The safe house is quiet in that way that never really means quiet.

Simon’s back is pressed to the wall, concrete cold even through his kit. Rifle laid across his knees, gloves wrapped around it without thinking. He’s listening, always listening, for the scrape of boots, a breath where there shouldn’t be one, the wrong kind of silence outside the door.

But his head’s not here. It’s a thousand miles away. Warm. Soft. Bare.

He thinks of you without meaning to and then he can’t stop. The way your skin feels under his hands, nothing like the hard edges of weapons and armor. Soft where everything else in his world is sharp. The give of your hips. The warmth at the small of your back when he presses you into the mattress like he’s afraid you'll disappear if he doesn’t keep you there.

Your lips. Christ.

Pink and swollen after he kisses you too long, too hard. The way you tilt her head automatically now, learned, like your body already knows what’s coming when he leans in. He imagines dragging his mouth over yours until you’re breathless, until every sound you makes shoots straight to his cock. He can almost feel it, your breath slipping into his ear, warm and unguarded. The way you say his name like it belongs to you, like it’s not something everyone else barks or growls or fears. The way you clutch at him like you’re grounding yourself and unraveling him at the same time. He thinks about burying himself in your tight cunt for hours once he’s home. No urgency. No clocks to watch. Just heat and friction and the way you cling to him like you know exactly how close he lives to the edge.

His grip tightens on the rifle before he realizes it.

This is dangerous. Letting his mind wander like this. Letting it soften. Letting something matter that much.

A voice cuts through the haze. “Ghost.” Price. Low. Sharp.

Simon blinks, the fantasy shattering like glass. The room rushes back in. The dim light, Soap cleaning his weapon across the way, the faint buzz of comms, the ever-present tension sitting heavy in the air.

“Yeah,” Simon answers immediately, spine straightening, thoughts locking back into place.

“Eyes up.” Price says, already turning away.

Simon nods once, jaw tight beneath the skull mask.

Rifle back in his hands. Ears tuned outside. Mind dragged back to the present, kicking and screaming. But the thought lingers anyway.

pt 1 pt 2

“bad” ending

-

The pub night that followed John’s return wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. You weren’t trying to cling to John and put on the “perfect marriage” act anymore and it actually made you upset how much more comfortable your husband seemed with that. You caught yourself watching him more times than you could count and you must have looked a bit hopeless at one point because you suddenly feel a kick at your leg. You look over and make eye contact with Simon who glances over towards the door to signal you to meet him outside.

He leaves first under the guise of having a smoke and after a few minutes you say you’re going to the restroom. You meet him outside and just collapse into his shoulder, sighing deeply.

“Y’ever thought bout divorcing him?”

“Is this your way of telling me to leave him for you?”

Simon shrugs, blowing out a plume of smoke as his hand taps against your hip. “If y’ask me, it’d be an improvement.”

You laugh and pull away from him, giving him a tiny smile before going back inside. The rest of the night, you watch as John talks with the others and acts like you weren’t even there. And it wasn’t just Simon that noticed, Soap and Gaz gave you sympathetic looks every once in a while. They always had after Simon let it slip that he thought Price had changed.

After that conversation about divorce, you spend the next weeks doing any bit of research you could to find a good lawyer and get your assets in order. Then came the time to tell John. He was sitting at the table reading through some paperwork when you come and sit across from him. The nerves were keeping you from saying anything. Any time you opened your mouth you thought you were gonna throw up. So you take a deep breath and just say it.

“I want a divorce.”

John looks up from the forms in front of him and just stares, not saying a word and barely moving a muscle. “Alright.”

“Because I- wait what?” You blink and stare back at him like he just said something insane. “Did you say ‘alright’?”

“Yeah. No point in fightin when I want it, too.” He looks back down and keeps on reading, not even bothering to ask what made you come to that decision.

“Oh.”

The divorce process was long but the act itself was…easy? So easy that it was the hardest thing you’d ever done. You and John had decided that you’d keep the small house you’d bought together and he’d move closer to the base since you had no reason to go anywhere.

He was out before you knew it and you just looked around at the empty spaces on the walls where your wedding photos once hung. Rectangles that were blocked from dust and dirt all those years brighter than any other spot on the wall. You should have been happy, you were single and could actually be with Simon without having to sneak around anymore. But for some reason there was the weight of a failed marriage crushing you.

“Shit…” you mutter, walking around the house and blinking tears away when you see all the spots worn down by John. The dip in the couch cushion where he sat, the way the mattress was slightly crooked from his weight. You clear your throat to try and keep the tears back when you hear the front door open. It was Simon.

“Hey love, I brought takeout from that place y’like.” When you don’t answer, he scans the room and slowly makes his way through the house. “Love?”

“Yeah, yeah sorry,” you walk out of the room and wrap your arms around his neck to cling to him. “I was just looking at everything. It’s weird, ya know? It already felt like I was living alone before everything but…”

You trail off and look up at Simon, hoping he would figure out what you were trying to say. He hums quietly and nods. “I know.”

He holds up the bag of takeout and leads you to the living room, sitting on the couch and taking out the boxes and utensils. You eat together in relative silence, the sound of the tv filling the emptiness. It was a comfortable silence for once, you didn’t feel the need to try and force conversation with someone who didn’t want any part in it.

A year goes by since the divorce and you don’t really see or hear about John anymore. You’ll ask Simon how missions went and he’ll tell you, John’s name coming and going in passing but not much else. Simon moved in pretty quick and the both of you decided against making your relationship super known, Simon telling Gaz and Soap about the woman in his life but never dropping your name. Somehow you still wanted to save John the embarrassment. He didn’t even know you were seeing anyone period.

and when he cums, he cums. dumps bucket loads inside you. his voice gets all high and whiny when he cums, too. his hips jerking and his head nuzzled into the crook of your neck bc he's so embarrassed that he came before you even started.

The boys end up convincing you to do shots and next thing you know you are up dancing begging for Ghost to come dance with you. You are nasty with it. Not caring who sees or about the fact that the rest of the 141 are there. Gaz is laughing his ass off, Price is just smirking in the corner and Johnny is trying not to look at your provocative display.

Ghost is used to this by now. He lets you dance for a while and entertains your thoughts. Eventually he herds you out of the bar.

+18 content warning

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

boyfriend!simon who is dotting and anticpates all your needs. he draws a warm, bubbly bath for you to unwind after a long and grueling day. he meets you at the door, helping you slip off your shoes and hang up your purse. you give him an inquisitive look and all he says is, "let me take care of you, love."

The butcher’s counter smells wrong. Too clean, too cold. Simon stands there with his arms crossed, eyeing the lineup behind the glass — the marbling’s off, the cuts uneven. Amateurs, he thinks, jaw ticking. He spent enough years breaking down carcasses to know when someone’s phoning it in.

Still, he grabs two ribeyes — best of the sorry lot — and mutters a quiet, “Could d' worse,” before heading back toward the produce aisle where he left you. You’re meant to be picking out vegetables, humming under your breath like you always do when you’re trying to decide between two kinds of herbs you’ll probably forget to use.

He hears your voice before he sees you. Soft. Polite.

That tone you use with strangers when you’re trying to be kind.

Simon slows, brow furrowing. He rounds the corner, hand tightening around the basket’s handle and stops dead.

You’re there, buggy parked sideways in the middle of the aisle, smiling up at a man in civvies. Brown jacket. Broad shoulders. Facial hair. Familiar stance.

Captain John Price.

Simon’s stomach drops clean through him.

For a heartbeat, he just stares — silent, still, like a bow pulled taut. Price hasn’t noticed him yet he’s too busy making you laugh. And Christ, you’re laughing. Hand brushing your hair back, bright-eyed, completely unaware of who you’re talking to.

His throat goes dry. He doesn’t mix work and personal life — not since you. Especially since you. He made damn sure of it. But the sight of his captain standing in front of you, smiling easy as you please, feels like watching two universes collide in real time.

Price catches sight of him first. His eyes widen just a touch — surprise, then understanding flickering in that split-second recognition.

“Simon?” he calls, voice carrying easily down the aisle.

Simon considers if it's too late to turn back.

Price’s grin is already forming when he starts toward him, easy and unbothered as ever, pushing his cart like this is any other chance encounter. And you, caught in the middle, turn at the sound — eyes bright, smile soft, none the wiser of the storm brewing just a few paces behind you.

The realization hits a second later, a quick jolt in your chest. The man you’d just nearly run over with your cart knows your boyfriend. And suddenly, you’re the only one who doesn’t understand what’s happening.

Simon keeps walking, closing the gap one steady step at a time. Each thud of his boots on the tile sounds too loud, too final. His pulse thuds in his ears.

He hates the picture in front of him. You standing there next to Price, the man who’s seen him at his ugliest. The one who’s watched him wade through blood and ruin, who’s heard the worst things he’s ever said and still called him mate.

You, his precious little thing, all warmth and light and softness, smiling up at the man he’s brought so much death with.

And Price — bloody Price — looks from you to him, that knowing expression tightening around his mouth like he can already feel the imaginary lines he’s just crossed.

Simon stops in front of him, every movement measured. “Price.”

He says it flatly — no smile, no warmth — and extends a hand. Price catches the cue, clasping it firmly, eyes flicking over Simon’s shoulder like he’s recalibrating the whole scene.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Price says, voice even but cautious now. “Small world, eh?”

Simon only hums, jaw tight. “Somethin’ like that.”

You edge closer, curiosity outweighing sense, cart wheels squeaking softly against the tile. The air between them feels strange — heavier than it should for two old friends running into each other. You look between them, catching the way Simon’s posture stiffens even further the nearer you get.

Price notices it too. His brows draw together just a little, concern cutting through the easy grin he’d worn a moment ago. He glances at you, then back to Simon.

“And this would be…?” he asks lightly, leaving the question open, polite.

Simon’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t look at you right away — can't — just gives the smallest nod in your direction.

Your name falls out of his mouth quietly. Rough, like gravel. No label.

Price’s gaze follows, lingering on you for a moment before returning to Simon. Something in his expression shifts — the kind of understanding that doesn’t need words. His shoulders ease, and a faint, knowing smile ghosts across his face.

“Right,” he says quietly.

“Didn’t mean t’interrupt.”

For a long second, neither of them moves. Price studies him, and there’s something softer in his eyes now — a quiet sort of pride. A life. A home. A family. Things Simon never really had growing up, and now he’s building them with his own hands, however clumsily. Of course he’d guard that like his own skin. Of course he wouldn’t want anyone from that other world anywhere near it.

Simon just nods once, stiff and silent, and Price lets it go.

Price gives a last small nod, looking like he’s about to move on, but you beat him to it. The question tumbles out before you can stop it - light, curious, a little too bright to cover the uneasy thrum under your skin.

“So… how do you two know each other?” You glance between them, Price still warm and polite, Simon stiff as a board beside you. You already have a hunch, one that sits heavy in your stomach, but you want to hear it said out loud.

Price’s smile flickers, easy but careful. “We’ve worked together, here and there,” he says, voice gentler now, like he’s trying to smooth over something sharp.

“Yeah, cross paths sometimes,” Simon says, his eyes finally meeting yours under the harsh lights. They’re pleading for you not to ask anything else, to let it go. So you do, despite the curiosity gnawing at you like a caged animal.

Price nods once, understanding passing silently between them. Then his eyes soften when he looks at Simon again — something almost fond there, hidden beneath the professionalism. He’s secretly glad, you can tell. Glad to see Simon standing here in a grocery store of all places, with a cart half-full and a pretty woman at his side.

“Right,” Price says finally, clearing his throat. “Well. Don’t let me keep you two.”

He gives you a polite smile and a small tilt of his head before rolling his cart past.

You watch Price disappear around the corner, his trolley rattling softly over the tile, and the silence he leaves behind feels too heavy for a supermarket. Simon still hasn’t moved. His jaw’s tight, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on nothing.

You open your mouth, starting to ask—something, anything to break the tension. “Is he-,”

But he beats you to it, voice low and rough. “Not now, love. Let’s get home, yeah? I’m starved.”

It’s not a dismissal, not really. Just a retreat. A man trying to rebuild the walls that cracked a little too wide.

You nod, fingers curling around the trolley handle as you fall into step beside him. You know better than to press when his world’s bleeding into yours — when the stranger he never lets you meet slips out, and for a split second, you don’t recognize him. The way his shoulders square, the way his eyes go distant. It’s like watching him retreat behind a mask you can’t see this time but can feel.

So you let it go. For now.