Simon Riley was a nightmare of a dad. One wrong move and he grounded his son for a whole week. No calls. No going out. No friends. Nothing but staying in and fucking studying.
You walked into your home after a soul-crushing day to find your only child, Tom, and his friends clustered in the living room, bags slung over shoulders, laughter too loud. They were heading out, again.
"Tom, baby, no" you said, setting your bag down. "It’s too late. It’s ten already."
"Ma, it’s fine" he said easily. Too easily. "I’ll be back in an hour. And if not, I’ll just crash at Ric’s -"
"No. Absolutely not. Nuh-uh."
He groaned. "Mom, I’m seventeen."
You turned slowly and looked him dead in the eye. "Exactly."
He scoffed and stood up - and Christ, he was already almost Simon’s height. Broad shoulders. Long limbs. Too big, too fast. Your chest tightened. You’d always been scared shitless of big men.
You remembered the first time you met Simon - bumping into him on your way back from partying with friends, freezing when you looked up and saw just how massive he was. Towering over you. You’d panicked and sprinted across the street like your life depended on it.
And yet years go by and he’d been the only man who ever mattered.
The only one who sat when you entered a room. The only one who shifted his stance to seem smaller at crowded dinners. The one who always knelt down to hear you better as you rambled on about your day.
You didn't even know he was in special forces when you started dating him. Yet he was the only one who bent the world around you instead of the other way around.
"Tom" you said sharply as his friends grabbed their things.
"I said no. You aren’t leaving. It’s dangerous, and have you even seen the news? That psycho killer still hasn’t been caught-"
"Ma, move" His voice dropped. Firm, just like his dad. "I’m goin."
He nudged past you.
Your hand shot out on instinct, fingers wrapping around his wrist. "I said no baby it's not safe. And you're not going."
He turned and looked down at you. God...
Your body betrayed you.
Your breath hitched. Your limbs locked. Too tall. Too close. Your heart slammed violently against your ribs.
"Ma" he muttered, irritation creeping in. "Let go."
You didn’t. Hell you couldnt even hear him. It's like your system had a shut down.
He shoved your hand away - not hard. Barely anything at all.
But it was enough.
Your foot slipped. Pain exploded up your ankle as you stumbled and went down with a sharp cry.
"F..fuck..uh.." You hit the floor, clutching your ankle.
"Oh shit - no no, mum" Tom dropped to his knees, panic flashing. "I didn’t mean, God-"
He glanced back at his friends. "Just - just go."
They didn’t hesitate. Because Simon had seen everything.
The way your body froze.
The way your breathing shattered.
The way his son, your son, had stood over you - unknowing, careless, dangerous.
The house changed. Heavy footsteps came down the hall - slow. Deliberate.
"What happened."
Not a question. A sentence.
Tom swallowed hard. "Dad, I - she just tripped."
Simon stopped in front of him.
Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to.
"No" he said quietly. "You step back. Now."
"Dad-"
"Back." One word. Final.
Tom moved instantly.
Simon knelt beside you, massive frame blocking the room, eyes flicking over your ankle, your shaking hands, your face.
"Look at me" he said. Low. Commanding. "You with me, love?"
"I’m fine, Si" you breathed. “Just give me a second- "
"No" he said.
"Arms round my shoulders" he said. "Now"
"Si, I can walk-"
"No" he cut in. "You can’t. And I’m not asking."
"Dad, I didn’t-"
You wrapped your arms around him as he lifted you effortlessly, like he always does.
"I’ll get the ice pack" Tom said, desperate.
Simon didn’t even look at him.
"No" he said. "You stay exactly where you are."
He carried you down the hall, voice calm - but lethal as he passed his son.
Later that night you see Simon pacing back and forth as Tom sat on couch terrified.
"You don’t get to grow into the kind of man who scares women" he said quietly. "Not in my house. Not with my name."
"She might be yer mum but she's my wife first."
Tom nods looking anyway but his dad.
"I'll tell you where you learnt that size from hmm? You're a big boy I get it. I was the biggest kid growing up too. But you know what, I saw how people around me hesitated to even ask for me help."
"Dad I didn't mean to scare her" Tom mumbles .
"But you did scare her. All her life she's known big men who didn't realise just how much space they took" he groans pointing at Tom.
"I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention"...
"No. Intent doesn't change impact". You peek through the bedroom door to see Simon towering over Tom as he sat on couch.
"If you ever use your size to push past her, dismiss her, scare her - by accident or otherwise, you’ll learn real fast what restraint looks like. Because right now, the only reason you’re still sitting comfortable is because she’s hurt. And she matters more" he snaps hauling Tom up by his shirt.
"Now grab that damn ice pack and go up and apologize. Kneel if you must. You'll stay at home this week cooking, cleaning, washing dishes and what not but make sure my wife doesn't lift a single finger".
Tom nods as he feels Simon press his forehead against him.
"You'll be a better man than me son. But you'll learn how to be small..and use that size to protect, never to harm. And never ever try to scare a woman. Especially my woman. Got it?"
"Aye sir". Tom bolted upstairs grabbing the icepack. He needed to make things right.
Simon took an oath to never let anyone hurt what he loved. And he'll be damned if his wife was scared in her own house. He'll teach Tom how to be gentle even if it takes months.
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SIMON'S MISSUS WHO KICKS AND SLEEP-TALKS LIKE SHE'S POSSESSED 🦖
♡──♡──♡༺♡༻♡──♡──♡
He didn’t know this before marrying you. Not that it would’ve changed his mind, no, but it would’ve been useful information.
First night of marriage. He’s drifting off, arm heavy around you, when you whisper -
"Eyes are the egg yolks of our body."
He frowns into the dark. "The fuck"
“Huh...you droppin’ random facts on me, darlin?” he mutters, half-asleep, Mancunian slurring hard.
You smack your lips, burrow into his chest, and mumble about "you have brown yolks. prettybrown..yolks..mhm.. 500 rainbow pigs beneath the bed.”
He exhales slowly. "Right. Married a lunatic." Arms tugging the blanket over your head. If only he knew this was just the tip of it.
He was gone most of the nights. But oh when he was on a break from missions, he noticed the more tired you are, the worse it gets.
"Mmm… gah. Fuck the Brits" you mumble, rolling away.
He stiffens. "Oi - hang on. I’m British."
Before he can defend his country, your body jolts and you shriek -
"SIMON, GO BACK!"
He bolts upright, heart slamming. "Go back where?! I’ve just got here!"
And then he realised where the slogan came from. God knows why your sleeping brain decided to summon the Indian freedom movement.
The next incident is after a nightmare of a day. You barely make it to the bed, exhausted from your office - and just collapse beside him. He’s come back from a mission early. One look at you and he knows.
He sighs. Tonight’s gonna be violent.
He murmurs about base stuff, boring on purpose, hand massaging your shoulders. He would never tell you the details of the mission but instead told you about the ration food they ate, how Soap managed to save a child or how Gaz adopted a cat on base. You smile faintly, tangle your legs with his, eyes glassy.
"M so in love with you, Si. Your stupid boy missions…"
That does him in. Completely ruins him.
He softens, fingers gentle as he shifts to braid your hair like you do before sleeping. "Aye… sleep, love. You’re knackered." And then you’re out cold.
Three in the morning -
"FREEDOM, COMRADES!"
The scream is feral. Your legs start twitching like you’re charging into war. Simon knew the fucking engine was warming up for it. Legs vibrating like a missile ready to fly off.
"OI - BUNNY - NO - WAIT - DON’T - " he tries holding your thighs.
CrACk!!! Right in the balls.
"FUCKKKK OHh..YOU...gaah...FUCK-" he wheezes, voice breaking.
He curls instinctively, back facing to you as he fights back tears - and that’s when you nail him again. Straight to the ass.
He goes flying off the bed with a heavy thud.
"Never turn yer back to me. Victory at last!!!" you shout, pumping fist in the air, dead asleep.
He lies on the floor, staring at the ceiling, gasping for air.
"...I married a revolution."
In the morning, you find him shuffling across the kitchen, moving very slow.
"Si? Why are you waddling like a penguin?”
He side-eyes you. Slow. Dangerous. "I'm gonna have to cuff you."
You blush instantly, biting your lip. "Oh?"
He snorts. "Oh don’t flatter yourself."
"I mean literally tyin’ your hands and feet at night so you don’t end up ruinin’ our future kids."
It hits you. Oh my God. You kicked his balls in sleep.
You gasp. "Oh my God Si, I’m so sorry!"
He groans, collapsing onto the couch like a Victorian man with the vapours.
"I’ve been shot. Stabbed. Blown up" He glares.
"None of that prepared me for you. Married a woman more lethal than a bomb."
God you feel horrible now. You bring him tea and icepack. He watches you like you’re armed.
"Next time you shout freedom love" he mutters, "I’m sleepin in riot gear."
He pulls you gently between his knees anyway, resting his forehead against your stomach. Protective even while wounded.
You grin. "Still love me?"
He exhales, lips brushing your skin.
"Unfortunately. Madly" he places kisses on your tummy as you knead his scalp gently.
"When they're auditioning for Exorcist 2, I'll let em know I have a lead actor in mind" he grins pulling you closer.
That night, he wraps an arm and a leg around you like a human restraint system. Doesn’t sleep properly. One eye open. Always.
You murmur, half-asleep, "Mmm… rebellion…"
"Don't" he warns softly. "I swear to God."
You kick once - just a twitch.
He tightens his grip instantly. "Nope. Absolutely not. Sleep, Che Guevara."
"Gandhi" you whisper.
And Simon Riley, elite soldier, reduced to fearing bedtime. All thanks to his little nutjob of a wife. He would never admit to anyone on base - how his wifey kicked his ass..quiet literally. But oh how he loves her - natural like breath. He might have to go ribbon shopping later tho..😉
A/N: Thanks for all the love on previous chapter guys. This one sets their story in motion. I hope you all like this. Comments, reblogs and likes are more than appreciated 🩷
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After your first and last encounter with the lieutenant, you were convinced he hated you. Later, the other trainees confirmed it was rare if he *didn’t* hate anyone. The man radiated hostility. The kind that made you straighten your spine just by entering the same room. Like he’d cave your skull in for breathing wrong.
The power cut hit the base without warning. A scheduled security drill - for future operations. Outside, rain lashed the windows hard enough to make them shudder in their frames.
You were halfway through arranging mattresses when raised voices tore through the storm.
Shouting.
Engines.
Boots slamming wet concrete.
141 was back.
You sprinted outside just in time to see combat medics pouring in, dragging wounded soldiers toward the medic bay. Blood everywhere -dark, soaking through kit. Men limping, swearing, teeth clenched so tight their jaws trembled.
"He’s in the jeep" he said, jerking his head. "Ghost. He’s bad. Don’t piss about."
Before you could answer, bodies surged past you. Someone shoved you aside as gurneys were rushed in. That was your place - carry, assist, get the hell out of the way. No.hands.on.medicine.
Still, your eyes followed him.
They hauled Ghost inside.
Christ.
He was barely moving. Pale beneath the skull mask, blood leaking through his vest, pooling beneath him. Severe blood loss, your brain catalogued it instantly. But the entry wound -
A hand clamped around your arm.
"Inside. Now."
The nurse didn’t wait.
You stood beside Jake, jotting notes as the doctors worked fast and viciously efficient. Orders barked. Metal clanged. The air stank of antiseptic and iron.
By evening, your hands ached. Your legs felt hollow. You were halfway through cold noodles when footsteps thundered back toward you.
"Oi!!! you. He wants you."
The head nurse shoved a needle pack into your chest, scowling.
"He’s being a right bastard. Refusin’ everyone."
Apparently Ghost had been snarling at anyone who came close.
"Not you. Get off."
"Don’t touch me."
"Send someone who knows what they’re doin’."
Then, sharp and final:
"The short daft one. The trainee."
You stepped into the room and stopped.
Ghost was propped up on the bed, stripped of most of his gear. Bloodied. Furious. His voice was low and lethal as he snapped at the nurse adjusting the IV.
"Get your hands off me before I break ‘em," he growled, thick Mancunian cutting through the room. "I said wait."
The nurse scoffed. "You’re not in charge here -"
His head snapped up.
"Try me. These hands are pansexual"
Then-
He saw you. Everything stopped.
His jaw clenched. His shoulders went rigid. Whatever fight had been clawing its way out of him slammed back behind steel doors. Gods he wanted to fix his uniform and tidy up right this moment. He looks down adjusting his mask to sit properly.
"…Right" he muttered, quieter. Controlled. "You can go."
The nurse blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I said go."
She hesitated, then shot you a look and left.
You swallowed and moved closer.
"I’m going to stitch your wound, sir" you said, voice steady. "I need you still."
He didn’t bite back. Didn’t snap.
"Get on with it" he said gruffly, eyes fixed on the wall behind you. Acting indifferent as if he didn't beg for you seconds before.
You worked carefully. The gash across his abdomen was deep, angry. When the needle went in, his breath hitched - but he didn’t make a sound.
Not a hiss.
Not a curse.
"You need to tell me if it hurts" you said softly.
A beat.
"…I’m fine rookie."
A lie. You both knew it.
As you leaned in to wrap the bandage, his hands flexed at his sides, knuckles white. Like he was holding himself together by force alone.
"Careful. Are you carving yer name on me" he muttered - not sharp. Not threatening. Just strained.
"Sorry sir."
"Didn't complain. Just don't rush" he mumbles still looking at the wall behind you.
"I won’t" you promised.
The overhead lights caught the rain still clinging to your hair. Water dripped onto the floor. He noticed.
"You’re soaked" he said quietly as blood loss finally takes toll on him.
"It’s nothing."
His jaw tightened. His warm brown eyes tracing your face as lightning flashes revealing every speck of your eye. The ceiling lights forming a halo around your head as you loom over him wrapping the bandage. An angel, he thought, thanks to delirium.
"Shouldn’t have you out there" he muttered, more to himself than you. Then, harsher - like he was correcting the softness:
"Focus."
You finished the wrap. Stepped back.
Only then did he look at you properly.
"You know you smell like Manchester after rain..a proper storm" he whispers voice low, reluctant. His head falls back on the pillow as he looks around hazily now.
You didn't hear him as you clean bloodied hands in the basin. Before you could ask him to repeat-
The door opened.
"Well, I’ll be damned" Price said, stepping in. "You’ve gone quiet."
He draped a jacket around your shoulders. "Don't want our medics falling ill too."
"Two weeks, Riley. You’re not goin’ anywhere."
Ghost nodded once.
"Good."
Price frowned. "Huh. You want to stay?"
Ghost’s gaze followed you as you left the room.
"…Aye. Good"
Across the base, it spread in hushed voices.
Ghost wasn’t asking for discharge.
Ghost wasn’t fighting the medics anymore.
But if anyone else walked into that room? They got snapped at.
And every night, without fail, one question cut through the corridor - low, rough, unmistakably his:
Ghost nearly burned the kitchen down trying to catch the gecko you had spotted earlier. He came bursting into the cafeteria the moment you let out a scream.
He entered to find you jumping around with other rookies, yelling about how a gecko had landed in your food bowl.
"It was so slimy - I swear it looked dead" you shrieked along with your friends. The lot of you trying to find it. Then the room went silent...
"All you useless bastards - what the fuck is all this screechin’ about?" he roared, voice thick, sharp, unmistakably northern. "This is the bloody military, not your mum’s bathroom."
His eyes locked onto you.
"You" he growled, stabbing a finger in your direction.
"S–sir, I can explain. There was a gecko --
"A gecko?" His lip curled. "And you’re trainin to be a fuckin sniper, are ya?" He stepped closer, towering over you.
"Pathetic."
His shadow swallowing you whole.You barely had time to gasp before he roughly hauled you up by the collar, boots scraping the floor as he dragged you into the kitchen.
"Where. Was. It?" he growled, shaking you hard enough to rattle your teeth. You pointed toward the sink with trembling fingers, biting your lip to keep from crying. Just a month in, and you’d already caught the attention of the worst superior officer - over your fear of reptiles. Even the small ones.
He shoved you aside and crouched, peering beneath the sink, muttering a stream of curses under his breath.
"Lieutenant sir, I’m so sorry. Won’t be that reckless again. I just -
"Quiet." One sharp word. Final. You could hear him cursing as he worked. What was he even doing. Was he that kind to help a rookie? Just when your thoughts begin to drift -
He stood up slowly, fist clenched. And when he stepped closer, the sheer size of him hit you full force - broad, solid, dangerous. No wonder enemies had begged for death before he ever touched them.
In a flash, he caught both your wrists in one brutal grip, pinning them down effortlessly.
"Sir - sir, I said I’m sorry -
He yanked you forward until your faces were inches apart. "Eyes on me" he growled, yanking you closer until your nose was nearly brushing his chest..his eyes brown and cold. You held your breath afraid even that will piss him off. Hearing you gasp, his grip tightened, knuckles digging into your skin.
Then, without warning, he raised his other hand - and dangled the gecko by its tail right.in.front.of.your.face. You screamed, louder than before, thrashing to pull free.
He laughed. Low. Amused. "Nah" he said calmly. "Face it, soldier. You’re gonna look at it."
"No - no, sir"
"Yes, you will," he snapped. "That’s an order or I'll shove it down that little screamin mouth of yours."
He swung it closer, deliberately slow, letting it brush your nose. You froze. He studied your face for a second before releasing your wrists and dropping the gecko into your palm.
"Deep breath" he ordered, forcing your hand still. "That’s it. You’re doing good, rookie."
But the moment the gecko crawled up your hand you broke. You dropped it with a sob and bolted, tears spilling as you ran back into the cafeteria. Simon just stood there, staring after you - brow furrowed, expression unreadable.
When Simon stepped out of the kitchen, he saw you like that.
Small. Wrecked.
You collapsed beside the other rookies in the cafeteria. Eyes red and puffy - as one of the boys awkwardly rubbed your back.
You pointed at him while choking on words, and the entire room turned to look. He would've made anyone else run circuits for being a crybaby. But for the first time in his career, Simon Riley felt like he’d crossed a line. Like he’d made an angel cry. You weren't crying cause of the gecko, you were cryin cause you faced a much bigger fear. Over 6 feet to be exact.
He watched you rub your palms against your cargos, trying to wipe away the feeling. No - not only your palms but wrists too. Where he held you so harshly. And something twisted uncomfortably in his chest. Guilt.
He hated it. But right now, he stared at the floor, jaw clenched and nearly ashamed. He never meant to break you.
Later that week, in the common room, Soap - the mohawked superior handed out callsigns to the rookies. Titles you’d carry for the rest of your service.
You looked down at the metal tag in your hand and sucked in a sharp breath.
GECKO.
Your head snapped up. Everyone around you was 'Wolf' 'Storm' etc badass names; laughing how you were named after something so silly. You look around to see Simon watching you from the corner of the room, unreadable.
He stepped closer to you to speak so low you thought it was the wind - "Don’t let ‘em see you fold my little gecko" his hands accidentally brushing your wrists lightly before walking away.
Soap patted him on his back grumbling about some breifing as they stormed out of the room.
Looks like you’ve made an enemy. Or so you thought.
A/N : This is a shorter blurb. Just a sweet fic. Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated. Enjoy 🌷🌷🌷
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"Dad!"
Simon freezes mid-step, eyes locking onto his teen son, Tommy, standing by the mirror in an actual nice shirt. Hair done. Ironed shirt???? Shoes clean. The audacity.
"No" Simon says immediately. "Nope. Not happenin."
Tom groans. "Oh my God–"
"You’re too young for this shite" Simon grumbles, folding his arms. "Dates, ribbons, lookin’ all smug."
"I’m eighteen, Dad" Tom huffs, struggling to tie a ribbon onto the tulip bouquet. "I can handle one date. And before you start–she planned it."
Simon squints. "She planned it."
"Yes."
"She initiated."
Simon clicks his tongue. "Red flag already. You."
You come downstairs tying your hair up in a bun, drawn by the raised voices. "Why do I hear arguing before dinner. Are u interrogating him Si?"
Simon jerks his thumb at Tom. "Because your son’s off gallivantin’."
"I’m going on a date" Tom corrects.
You blink. "A date...a date-date?” Your eyes drop to the tulips. “What are you giving her, Tom?"
"Uh… it’s just flowers, tulips."
You gasp like you’ve been stabbed in the heart. "Oh my God, that’s so cute for a first date, baby!" You rush over and squish his cheeks hard.
"Maa–stawp" Tom whines. "You’re gonna ruin my jawline!"
"It doesn’t work like that" you laugh. He’s massive now–broad, tall, solid. Simon's hair and build but your eyes...jesus he was not your chubby baby anymore. But you still wanted to squish his cheeks everyday. You actually have to tiptoe just to reach his face. Rude. You grab the bouquet– "Give me this."
You retie the ribbon neatly. "So, where are you taking her? Italian? Chinese? Indian? Or that new–"
"Jesus, Mum" Tom cuts in. "It’s not a food date."
Simon perks up. "Not a food date?"
"It’s a cafe" Tom says. "Coffee. Pastries. That’s it."
You stare waiting for him to continue
"…That’s it?"
"A coffee date?" Simon scoffs. "That’s not even a date, that’s a break. What will ye eat."
"A date’s a date, baby" you say, pinching Tom’s cheeks again. He hisses. "It’s a trick for blushing."
Tom grabs his jacket. "You’re both unbearable."
As he heads out, Simon stops him with a hand on his shoulder, voice dropping.
"Oi. Kid."
Tom sighs. "Yeah?"
"Don’t do any of that… stuff."
"Ew, Dad. No. Ew."
"It’s natural–" Simon mumbles as you sideye him trying to listen what he was saying.
"Dad. No.Ew."
Tom fake-gags dramatically. Simon snorts and ruffles his hair.
"Text when you get there. And do not make her cry. I don't care if yer my son" Simon mutters.
"I will be careful dad.." Tom says. "Bye, mum" he winks at you rushing out before Simon could stop him again.
Door shuts.
Later, Simon comes back inside to find you curled up on the couch, munching wafers.
He sinks down beside you with a heavy sigh. "Mad, innit. Kid’s all grown up. Doin’ dates and all that."
"Yeah…" You pause. "But a coffee date, Si? I thought we raised him better."
Simon smirks, arm slipping around your waist. "You remember our first date?"
You smile. "Yeah. How could I forget?"
"I was shittin’ myself" he admits. "Didn’t know what women liked. Thought too hard about it."
"I nearly died eating tacos" he says solemnly. "But you...you ate an entire plate and kept burpin’ like a gremlin."
You smack his arm. "I did not."
"Oh, you did" he laughs. "Had to undo the buttons on that cute little skirt you were wearin’. Thought it’d pop."
"You made me eat it all" you huff.
"And you loved it" he grins. "Then I took you to that lake. Ice cream everywhere."
You soften, smiling. "Yeah…you and me."
You laugh and then realise - "You gave me tulips too!!!!"
"Yeah" he grins sheepishly. "Didn’t know if a flower would like flowers as a gift. Thought I’d messed it right up."
"But then you held onto one of em all throughout the night didn't ya dove" he whispers tracing your nose.
"And look at us now" you say softly.
"Yeah" Simon murmurs. "Look at us."
He leans in, eyes warm, like he’s about to kiss you–
–and instead reaches over, steals a wafer, and bites it.
"I WILL KILL YOU SIMON RILEY" you shriek.
He’s already laughing, backing toward the bedroom. "Come kill me in bed then. We don't have much time. Kid’ll be back in an hour if it’s good."
You follow him, laughing. "Or half an hour, knowing him."
His laughter echoes down the hall.
You rush throwing the wafers on table, catching upto him as he pulls you into bedroom.
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PREVIOUS PARTS HERE go under Dad!Simon in masterlist.
PART 4 HERE (previous one)
A/N : Based on a concept given by @sutancha in comments. I love it!! And I hope this is what you imagined. Likes, reblogs and comments are more than appreciated (I am thirsty for comments) 🥹😋😋.
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“Darlin!!! Darlin!!! Woman!!!”
Simon comes absolutely barrelling down the hallway, barefeet thudding like gunfire, voice echoing through the house. You’re still on the porch, legs tucked under you, book balanced on your knee.
You look up just as he skids to a stop, bent over, hands on his thighs, breathing like he’s sprinted a mile.
“What–what’s wrong?” You’re already on your feet. “Simon, are you hurt?”
“Si.” You step closer and press your palm flat against his chest. His heart is hammering, wild and uneven. “Jesus Christ. Calm down. You’re shaking.”
“Aye, because me world’s just tilted on its axis” he pants.
You scan him instinctively - arms, shoulders, face. “Tell me what’s wrong. Did something happen to Tommy?”
His jaw tightens at the name. He swallows hard. “He posted.”
“…Posted what?”
“A photo.” His voice cracks, barely. “From last night.”
You blink. “Okay. And?”
“Our lad. On the date.”
You exhale, half a laugh slipping out. “Simon, you nearly gave me a heart attack for that?”
He stares at you like you’re the one acting crazy.
“Since when do you have social media?” you add, crossing your arms.
“I don’t” he snaps instantly. “I mean–I didn’t. I just” He rubs the back of his neck. “Made one. To check what you were postin’. Swear on me life.”
He thrusts his phone toward you, hand trembling. “Just...look.”
You take it, still amused. “What is it? Is she ridiculously pretty? Out of his league?”
“He” Simon croaks.
You pause. “What?”
“He’s not a she.”
Slowly, your eyes drop to the screen.
Tommy’s sitting close to another boy, both of them smiling like the world’s just softened around them. The boy’s got jet-black hair, a grin that looks easy and confident; and in his hands, unmistakably, are the tulips you wrapped last night for your son to gift 'his date'.
Your chest tightens.
The caption sits right beneath the photo:
Look at my handsome boy 🌷
“Oh” you breathe.
Behind you, Simon starts pacing again, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s trying to pull the thought out by the roots.
“So” you say carefully, zooming in. “He’s gay.”
Simon lets out a sound halfway between a groan and a growl. “Never bloody mentioned it, did he?”
You study the photo longer than necessary. They look happy. Comfortable. Safe.
“He didn’t tell us” you murmur. “That’s… a lot to find out like this.”
Simon scoffs sharply. “Aye. Cheers for the Instagram announcement, son. Dumbass”
You glance up at him. “Don’t even start.”
He stops pacing. “What?”
“Don’t you dare tell me you’ve got a problem with this.”
He bristles instantly. “Oi. Don’t put that on me.”
“I’m serious, Si.”
He jabs a finger toward his chest. “I am not hoephobic. I’ve dragged Soap out of enough pubs to prove that.”
You arch a brow. “Then why do you look like you’re about to pass out?” “And it's homophobic Si.”
“Because that ain’t the problem, dove.”
“Then what is it?”
He strides back over, snatches the phone from your hand, swipes aggressively, and shoves another photo in your face.
Johnny MacTavish. Soap. Smiling like always. Mr Charms.
You blink. “Yeah… that’s our Johnny. What about him?”
Simon stares at you like he’s waiting for the penny to drop.
“…What?” you prompt. “Is he..oh my god–”
“No he's not gay” Simon groans. “He’s married. To 'me bonnie' as he calls her. You’ve met her.”
“…Okay?”
He thrusts the phone closer. “Look. Properly.”
You squint at the screen again, leaning in. A beat passes.
“Oh” you say slowly. “He looks like–”
“don’t” Simon warns.
“–like an older version of Tommy’s date,” you finish. “…That’s actually kind of cute.”
Simon drags a hand down his face. “Baby. You're the smartest person I know..don't do this to me.”
Your stomach drops.
“That” he says flatly, “is his son.”
You stare, mouth open.
“…What.”
“Johnny’s lad.” He exhales hard. “Leon.”
Silence crashes between you as he waits for your reaction.
“Our son” you whisper, then louder, incredulous, “is dating Johnny MacTavish’s son?”
Simon throws his hands up. “Exactly!”
You gasp – and then, helplessly, you laugh. This was like a dream, who would've thought this would happen.
Simon looks betrayed. “Why are you laughin’?”
“I don’t know!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I just..of all people!!”
“Will this be a problem for you, Lieutenant Riley?” you tease weakly.
“Yes” he says instantly. “Massive.”
“You literally just said–”
“Not that way!” he snaps. “It’s..work, lines, history–Soap’s gonna have opinions”
The front door creaks.
Tommy steps in, still smiling, until he clocks the energy in the room.
“Uh… hi, Mum. Dad.”
Simon opens his mouth.
You cut in fast. “Hi, baby.” Your voice is warm – too warm. “Food’s in the oven. You can reheat it, yeah?”
Tommy hesitates, eyes flicking between you. “Yeah. Okay.”
He disappears toward the kitchen.
You grab Simon’s arm immediately and haul him down the hallway.
“Oi–what are you doin’?” he mutters as you shove him into the bedroom.
You spin on him. “He hid it from us.”
“So?” Simon fires back.
“So why?” Your voice drops. “Why was he scared to tell us?”
That lands.
Simon’s shoulders drop a fraction.
“…You think it’s us.”
“I think he didn’t trust us enough” you say quietly. “And that hurts more than anything else.”
Simon leans down, forehead nearly touching yours. “So what d’you want, then?”
“We do better” you say. “We make him feel safe. Seen. We don’t confront him. We don’t corner him. Give him time..he will say it. Don't have to force it outta him.”
He nods slowly. “Fine alright....ugh..I won’t say a word.”
“You promise?”
“On me life.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “Anything for you.”
He pulls you closer, kisses trailing along your jaw.
“Simon..uh..Si–stop” you laugh softly.
“What if this gets serious” you murmur. “What if Soap becomes his father-in-law?”
Simon groans into your neck. “Absolutely not. I refuse. I am violently Soap-phobic.”
The door creaks open.
“Ma?” Tommy’s voice. “I was wonderin’ if you’d give me that cake recipe–”
“JESUS!!NO–EW” he blurts, clamping his eyes shut.
Simon jumps back like he’s been shot. You slap a hand over your neck. Both of you standing like kids caught trynna make a bomb in class.
“I..uh yeah” you stammer. “I’ll write it down.”
Tommy flees.
You walk out with him, catching Simon in the mirror, arms crossed, rolling his eyes like the world’s personally offended him.
God. Even after being married for years, he has only grown hotter and more crazier...but you love your big dumb man...so very much. He has his opinions, but he is more than happy to kneel and listen to yours. Understand them. And hopefully, with efforts he will understand his son better too.
⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙
P.S- Yes Soap knew it already. He wanted to give his Lt. suprise of a lifetime....And thanks to his son "I finally have a one up on Lt. Wanker."
A/N: Yes he is a big jealous soldier. I tried writing it as smooth as I could. This one will have parts soon. My inboxes are open if you have any ideas 🤭 (I want him to cry from jealousy pls)
PART 2 IS HERE
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
Simon always side-eyed the new sergeant, Ryan, during lunch breaks.
Always.
The bloke’s tiffin was loaded - colourful shit, fancy names, sauces that smelled like they belonged in a five-star restaurant instead of a muddy field base.
“My wife can make salad appetizing” Ryan grinned one afternoon, popping the lid open. “Mad, that.”
Soap leaned over. “What the fuck is that?”
“Quinoa.”
“What the fuck is a quinoa?”
Gaz blinked. “That a Pokémon?”
Ryan laughed. “Eat it and find out.”
Simon scoffed, staring down at his own sandwich. Dry butter. Dry meat. Bread stiff enough to double as body armour.
“Might as well eat concrete,” he muttered, biting into it anyway.
Simon snorted under his breath. “Salad’s s’posed to be rabbit food.”
Ryan glanced at him, unfazed. “Guess you’ve just not had good food, yeah sir?”
Before he could reply, Soap lifted Ryan’s tiffin, holding it up for everyone to see. “Oi, lads!! there’s a note.”
Stuck neatly on top, pink paper, neat handwriting.
I hope you like it, baby. xoxo.
The table erupted.
“Awwww.”
“Man’s got himself a proper little housewife.”
“Lucky bastard.”
Ryan shrugged kissing his ring, smug. “What can I say?”
Simon stood abruptly, chair scraping loud against the floor.
Soap blinked. “Where you off, mate?”
“Lost me appetite looking at that shite grass” Simon muttered, already walking away.
Annoyed. That’s all it was. Just annoyed.
Right???
A month later, after grinding asses through missions that left them bruised and exhausted : Ryan invited the team to his place.
“My mansion” he said casually. “Drinks, food, partners welcome.”
Simon arrived in a hoodie and jeans, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Felt wrong. Naked, almost. His gear was his skin - this was exposure.
The gates opened and oh my...
Johnny whistled low. “Fuck me. That’s not a house, that’s a statement.”
Inside, the place was immaculate. Art everywhere - real art, not the mass-produced shite.
Gaz chuckled "Sergeant's doing fine huh. Economic dude type shii yo".
Simon stopped in front of a painting, admiring it. A J.M.W Turner. Soft strokes. Soft colors. A softer voice –
“Good eye.”
He turned.
You stood there, smiling softly. Calm. Confident. In a simple sweater and jeans.
He huffed. “Dunno much ‘bout paintings.”
You smile brighter hearing his cute as hell accent. Where was he from...You wanted to tell him how sweet it sounds but your husband would be pissed if he knows. He was taller than Ryan. And by the looks of it, more built too.
"Yeah but admiring it means knowing" you smile looking at his hoodie. He looked uncomfortable in it. Aww poor man. Would he like some comfy pajamas —
Ryan’s voice cut in. “Babe! Everyone’s here waiting.”
Simon stiffened at the word. And more so at the tone.
You disappeared briefly, then returned carrying a massive bowl of steaming biryani. The smell hit him like a punch to the gut.
"Guys I made biryani" you smile proudly.
Soap groaned. “Jesus Christ. That’s the tiffin woman.”
You laughed softly. “Guilty.”
“I’m serious” Soap said. “We’ve all been obsessed.”
“I just love cooking, I –”
Ryan waved his hand dismissively. “It’s just a hobby, guys.”
He smiled, pulling you closer. “This is Y/N, my wife.”
He patted his lap trying to get you to sit.
You rolled your eyes immediately. “Behave,” you muttered, stepping away.
Simon’s jaw clenched. Does he think you can't speak for yourself or what.
You shot Ryan a look, then picked up a plate and walked straight to Simon.
“You must be Ghost” you said gently. “Lieutenant, yeah?”
He looked up.
Fuck.
Up close, you were worse. Better. Hair tied up in a loose bun. Steady hands. Knuckles red - were you kneading dough with hands....And smelling of spices itself.
“Aye” he nodded coming back to senses. “That’s me.”
You filled his plate carefully. Thoughtfully. And very generously.
“Hope you’re hungry.”
“I–yeah” He stopped. Tried again. “Smells…unreal.”
He ate one small bite thinking you'll walk off to serve other guys. But no, you stood right there hands on your hips waiting for him to review it.
"Come on eat. You're a big man. You need a bigger plate" you huff shifting rice onto a bigger plate waiting for him. God you were one bossy woman. But why were you married to a prick?
Christ.
He took another bite sighing. “It’s… really nice, miss” he said quietly. "Uh..." his mind lost in flavours now.
"That bad?" you chuckle.
"That good" he mumbles shoving another spoonful.
Your smile softened. “I’ll pack some for you then. For home.”
Home.
The word lodged in his chest like shrapnel.
At three in the morning, Simon sat on the floor of his cold flat, back against the couch, eating reheated biryani straight from the container. What would it take for him to have something like this everyday?? And with a cute note on top.
"Yeah..must be nice" he mumbles eating quietly.
Warm. Comforting. Like home.
That’s someone’s wife, he told himself.
Pack it in.
_________________________________________
A month later, he sat in a high-end restaurant waiting on an informant, staring at the menu like it had personally offended him.
“These prices are criminal” he muttered.
The waitress approached. “Ready to order, sir?”
“Uh… beef borgin… borgui–fack.”
“It’s beef bourguignon pot roast” she said calmly.
That.damn.voice.
Simon froze. He looked up.
You.
Apron on. Hair tied. Same eyes. But more professional.
“Oh” he said stupidly. “It’s you. Y/n. You work here?”
“Aye.”
“Waitressing, then” he nodded. “Decent gig, I suppose.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “No, sir. I own this place.”
He frowned eyeing your apron “Workin’ here don’t mean yeh own it.”
“I own it” you repeated gently. “And about ten others. This one’s my favourite.”
His mouth opened.
Closed.
“What?”
You leaned closer, lowering your voice. “Order whatever you want, handsome. It’s on the house.”
Then you walked away.
Simon immediately Googled you.
Michelin star. Founder. A wiki article for fucks sake!!!
Ryan’s voice echoed in his head: It’s just a hobby, guys.
He scoffed. “Lyin’ prick.”
A waiter appeared, stacking more plates in front of him.
“Boss said to give these to the handsome man” the kid said before sprinting off.
Simon stared down at the food.
His ears burned.
“Handsome” he muttered. “Christ.”
She called me handsome. And I ain’t even got the balaclava on.
He ate every bite. Cleaned the plates. Nearly licked his fingers. Hell even his shirt was tighter now.
And for the first time in a long while –
Simon Riley smiled. Ear to ear. He smiled.
The next day in the training room, he saw Ryan laughing with the lads.
A/N : Thanks for the love and motivation for this part guys. I hope y'all like this one too. Likes and reblogs are more than appreciated. Lots of love 🩷
༺♡༻
You loved being a woman - most days. Except for the days when it felt like being a Viking on the battlefield, shedding blood whether you wanted to or not.
It was your week off work. Not because Simon told you to - God, no. He’d never pull that card. He had more than enough money to feed generations, courtesy of his "special salary from the forces" as he called it with a shrug. Still, ambition clung to you like a second skin. Rest never came easy.
The day itself was perfect. Sunshine filtered through thinning clouds. You crouched on the porch with a packet of tulip bulbs, dirt smudging your fingers as you pressed them into the soil.
That was when you felt it.
A slow, unmistakable warmth slipping down your thigh. You stand up and oh my...you must've been bleeding for an hour looking at the state of your pyjamas now.
"…shit."
You’d forgotten the date. Completely. Not your fault they were never on time.
You scrambled upright, heart thudding, and bolted inside. You rushed past Tom covering yourself with the garden apron. He was sprawled in the living room, eyes glued to his game.
"Whoa-" he started, but you were already gone, feet pounding up the stairs.
"M fine baby, just forgot somethin" you yell reaching for the bedroom door.
You stripped out of the ruined pyjamas, irritation and pain curling together in your gut. After a nice warm bath, you stuffed the blood-soaked fabric into the laundry basket with more force than necessary and collapsed onto the bed, curling in on yourself as the cramps started getting intense.
An hour later, the mattress dipped. You felt Simon settle beside you as he pulls you closer by your waist...jesus this man was clingy. But yeah he would always bath before joining you on bed. And no outside clothes on bed, nuh-uh.
'Ah, petal" he muttered, voice thick with that rough Mancunian lilt, "you won’t believe what Soap did today. Absolute muppet - thought breaching protocol was optional, didn’t he…"
He trailed off.
Simon noticed everything. Your tense posture. The way your body twisted slightly, like you were trying to escape yourself. The way you weren't asking any questions or pinching his tummy. Instead, he sees your hand rub slow, desperate circles into your lower back. The soft sound - not quite a cry, not quite a breath.
"Oh" he said gently. "Oh, sweet dove."
He shifted closer, one big hand hovering before settling against your hip. "It’s your period, innit?"
You nodded, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut. God it felt like someone was climbing up your back with knives. Sometimes the pain was so intense it made you nauseous.
"Bloody hell" he murmured, already standing. "Should’ve clocked it sooner. Stay put, yeah? I’ve got you."
He headed for the door, then barked down the hallway, "Tom! Enough of that game, son. Come do the laundry or I’ll-"
"Yeah, yeah, Dad, comin!!" Tom huffed, grabbing the laundry bag and stomping toward the stairs.
Simon returned a moment later with painkillers and a glass of water, pressing a kiss to your temple. You swallowed the pills and let yourself sag into him, exhaustion finally pulling you under.
You were almost asleep in his arms when the shriek cut through the house.
Sharp. Panicked.
You jolted upright. "Tom!! Fuck, that was Tom-"
"No no" Simon said instantly, firm but calm. "You stay right here. Don’t move. I’ll sort it."
He was gone in seconds.
Downstairs, Simon found Tom hunched over the washing machine, pale as a sheet, dry-retching and pointing at something on the floor.
"Dad...Dad - there’s blood" Tom gasped. "There’s blood on that - Jesus"
Simon followed his line of sight.
The pyjamas. Your pyjamas.
He sighed, slow and controlled, then bent to pick them up. "For Christ’s sake."
Tom gagged harder, one hand clutching his stomach. "That’s - nah...that’s disgusting. Burn it. Burn it, Dad."
Simon straightened, jaw tightening. His eyes sharpened, voice dropping low. "What did you just say?"
"It’s blood!" Tom snapped, still queasy. "It comes out of - out of - out of.."
Simon stepped closer, holding the cloth in his bare hand, unbothered. "Finish that sentence."
Tom swallowed. "Out of… there."
Simon’s stare bored into him. "Out of the same place you came from knucklehead."
Silence slammed into the room.
"That" Simon continued, voice edged with steel, "is just period blood. It’s not filth. It’s not shameful. It’s not somethin’ to gag over like a bloody child."
Tom flushed, looking away. "I just..didn’t expect it."
"Aye" Simon snapped. "And one day, someone you love will bleed like that too. And when they do, you don’t flinch. You don’t mock it. You don’t ask to burn it."
He shoved the pyjamas back into the machine and slammed the lid shut. "You help. You learn. Or you get out of my sight. Clear?"
"…clear" Tom muttered.
The next morning, you were sleeping and watching romcoms in your room all day. But oh my, you could hear how Simon was on Tom's ass. That man made him sit through a whole hour of youtube lecture on what a period is. And now he was teaching him how to make warm soup, how to give a good back massage, how to coat strawberries in chocolate, how to ignore mood swings and don't take it to heart...hey what!!!
You grumble as the door opens and both father and son enter holding food worth feeding a whole village. Tom puts the food on bedside table with painkillers.
"Uh, what's going on...both of you?" You frown looking up and down at them.
"Nothin love. Taught this cock how to take care of your needs in bloody days" he smirks patting Tom on his back.
Your eyes fill up as you see the food besides your table.
"I...I..I don't deserve all this" you whisper.
Tom pulls you into a full hug. You could feel the strength of him as he rubs your back.
"Dad taught me everythin mum. Promise I won't act like a jerk over this again. Proper sorry eh? He mumbles.
You nod and kiss his cheek teary eyed...this was the same boy you were worried for all these years. 17 now, but still your baby. But you know he will learn to be a good man, his dad will make sure of it.
You look down and see the chocolate covered strawberries and before you know, you start crying openly now. God fuck, it takes effort to make those.
"Oh mum..no no is there something you don't like-"
"Out kid. You've done a good job today...you'll be doin the same for the next three or four days. You and me both." Simon nods at his son before climbing on the bed besides you as you sobbed.
You cry and bury your head in his chest as he rubbed your back. Little did you know, the asshole was smirking looking at Tom with wiggling eyebrows 'told u son...the mood swings'.
You look back at Tom crying and shriek a loud "I love you baby". To which he laughs and walks out of the room leaving you both to your privacy.
"He's a good lad. Learns real fast" he murmured into your hair.
"You made it look like a military drill..." you sniffle sitting up to grab the soup bowl.
"How's it...had to stop him from throwing entire packet of garlic in it" he laughs shaking as you swat his chest so you don't drop the bowl.
"You endured months of pain and changes to give us Tom. It's only fair he learns how to take care of you".
"I love you Si" you whisper wiping your eyes into his shirt.
"I love you more angel" he grins pulling you onto his lap as you hold the bowl. He loves your mood swings. Especially the ones where you scream at him for no reason and this bastard would sit grinning while you lose your mind. Oh he would smile even when you threaten to poke his eyeball out because it turns him on.
But right now, you sit comfortably between his legs sipping the warm soup.
