My hands are tied, I have to ask for more Ghost family! It's a need not a want
What do we think about Simon and the 141 being on leave after a particularly long mission and Tommy is in football (us soccer ) and has a match and made little crayon invitations for the each member if the team, inviting him to his game
And maybe they go get dinner afterwords? And celebrate? Win or lose?
His Whole World
Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader
Warnings: Fluff, emotional softness, child/family content, swearing (from the adults), suggestive content and soft smut (MDNI 18+), mild language, hurt/comfort themes, domestic sweetness
Author's Note: You asked for more Ghost Family—and I gladly deliver. I hope you enjoy this little life of theirs!
Summary: While on leave, Simon and the 141 attend Tommy’s football match after receiving adorable crayon-drawn invitations. What follows is a celebration full of laughter, love, and a quiet night where Simon gets to hold his whole world in his hands.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
It started with a stack of brightly colored paper, three boxes of crayons, and Tommy sitting at the kitchen table with his tongue poked out in concentration.
You'd glanced over while washing dishes, catching him drawing lopsided smiley faces and scribbling stick figures in what he insisted were team uniforms. Little soccer balls dotted each corner, and each card was signed in big, clumsy letters:
To: Uncle Soap
To: Uncle Gaz
To: Grandpa Price
“Baby,” you smiled, drying your hands. “What are those?”
He held up a green one proudly, a sun in the corner with a crooked rainbow above it. “I’m inviting Daddy’s friends to my match! ‘Cause they said they’d come next time!”
You blinked back emotion. “They’ll love that.”
When Simon walked in and saw the mess of crayons and construction paper, he tilted his head.
“What’s all this, little lad?”
Tommy beamed. “Invitations!”
“For what?”
“My game! You said they’d wanna come!”
Simon froze in the doorway. And then—very slowly—he crouched next to his son, picked up one of the drawings and stared at it like it was the Mona Lisa.
“They’ll be there, kiddo. Promise.”
—
A Few Days Before the Match
The restaurant was the definition of comfort—old booths, framed kids’ drawings on the walls, crayons and coloring menus already on the table. You, Simon, and Tommy were squeezed into one side of the booth while Soap, Gaz, and Price took the opposite. It had been laughter and casual teasing all night.
But Tommy had been fidgety the entire meal, a little bundle of nerves and excitement, bouncing in his seat and clutching his backpack like it was a top secret mission.
When dessert arrived, he couldn’t wait anymore.
“I have something!” he blurted, sliding out of the booth and tugging open the zipper of his backpack with both hands.
Soap raised a brow. “This ain’t a bomb, is it?”
Tommy giggled. “Nooo, silly.”
He handed out folded papers one by one—wrinkled, smudged with crayon, each one unique.
“To Uncle Johnny. To Uncle Kyle. To Grandpa Price.”
They each unfolded theirs carefully, expressions going soft.
Soap snorted a laugh. “That’s me? You drew me with… is that a cape?”
“You’re my superhero,” Tommy explained proudly.
Gaz blinked a few times. “Is this for your football match?”
Tommy nodded eagerly. “You said if I invited you, maybe you could come. So I made invites! I drawed them all by myself!”
Price cleared his throat, already reading aloud. “‘Please come watch me score lots of goals. There will be juice after. Love, Tommy.’”
“Juice and football?” Soap grinned. “It’s a date.”
Gaz leaned across the table. “Front row. We’ll make signs.”
Tommy gasped. “Really?!”
“Absolutely,” Price added. “We’ll be the loudest ones there.”
Simon hadn’t said a word, just watching with his jaw set tight, a hand resting protectively on his son’s back.
When Tommy crawled back into the booth beside him and leaned into his side, Simon bent low, pressing a kiss to his curls.
“Told you they’d say yes,” he murmured.
—
Game Day
The field was damp from last night’s rain, the grass lush and springy underfoot. Kids ran wild in miniature uniforms, knee-high socks pulled to their thighs, shin guards crooked. You’d found a good spot on the bleachers while Simon paced just behind them, arm crossed, leg bouncing.
He was nervous.
“He’ll do great,” you said, rubbing his arm.
“I know,” Simon murmured. “Just—first time he’s ever played with a crowd.”
“He’s not just playing for a crowd.” You smiled. “He’s playing for his dad.”
He didn’t answer. Just kissed the top of your head and scanned the field until he found Tommy—a tiny blur of navy blue and white, blonde curls under a too-big headband, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
And then the shouting started.
“GO ON, TOMMY BOY!”
Soap.
“LET’S SEE THAT RILEY FOOTWORK!”
Gaz.
“DO US PROUD, LAD.”
Price, calm and commanding even from a lawn chair.
The three of them had shown up in matching 141 hoodies, faces painted with small stripes in Tommy’s team colors, holding signs that were very obviously made by Soap’s chaotic hand: “RILEY FOR MVP!” “BABY GHOST DOMINATES!”
Simon looked like he was about to cry. Or fight someone. Maybe both.
Tommy turned to look for you—and when he spotted his dad and the team waving wildly from the stands, he lit up.
He gave the smallest salute.
And then he ran.
The game was chaos in the best way. Kids missing the ball, bumping into each other, falling down and crying before getting up again like it never happened. But Tommy—Tommy scored. Twice.
You swore the sound Simon made wasn’t human.
Soap was on his feet, swinging Gaz in a circle. Price looked smug like he knew all along that the kid was destined for greatness.
And Tommy? He ran right to the fence after the whistle blew and threw himself into Simon’s arms.
“DID YOU SEE?!”
Simon lifted him like he weighed nothing. “Saw everything, champ. You were brilliant.”
His voice was hoarse. Raw. So proud.
And you—watching your husband hold your son like he was holding the whole damn sky—felt your heart swell.
—
After the Match
You all piled into a local family diner—sticky booths, cracked menus, a jukebox in the corner. Simon sat with Tommy tucked under one arm, still in his uniform, now eating a celebratory sundae with a plastic gold medal around his neck.
“Best player award,” Tommy announced to the table, lifting it up for all to see.
Soap clapped so hard it startled a waiter. “That’s our lad!”
Gaz leaned in close. “You want us to tell the base commander to get you a real one next time?”
Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Can you do that?!”
“Absolutely,” Price said. “We’ll frame it for you.”
The food was greasy and perfect—burgers, fries, and milkshakes all around. Simon barely touched his own plate, too busy watching his son laugh.
You caught his hand under the table. He laced his fingers with yours instantly.
“He’s happy,” you whispered.
“So am I.”
—
Later That Night
Back at the house, Tommy crashed the second his head hit the pillow—sunburnt cheeks, messy curls, medal still clutched in his hand.
Simon kissed his forehead and closed the door quietly behind him.
You found each other in the hallway, drawn together like magnets.
“He was amazing,” you whispered, arms slipping around his waist.
“He was perfect,” Simon murmured, pressing you back against the wall, hands slipping beneath your shirt. “You should’ve seen yourself cheering for him. Christ.”
“I did. You cried.”
“I didn’t—” he huffed, nose brushing yours. “Fine. Maybe a little.”
You laughed softly, fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt. “Come to bed.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice.
—
You lay beneath him, skin bare, breath stolen by the slow rhythm of his hips and the heat of his mouth on your neck.
Simon moved with reverence—like prayer. Every inch of him pressed close. Nothing frantic, nothing rough. Just desperate closeness.
“Missed this,” he whispered against your collarbone. “You. Home.”
“I missed you too,” you whispered, breathless as his hand slid over your hip, his lips ghosting over your breast.
The only sounds were the quiet creak of the bed and the way you gasped his name when he filled you again—slow, deep, a rhythm just for you.
You arched under him, clutching his shoulders, letting yourself fall apart in the safety of his arms. He followed not long after—buried deep, voice catching as he groaned your name into your mouth.
After, you stayed tangled together, hearts thudding in time, sweat cooling against your skin.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“For what?”
“For all of it. Him. You. This life. I never thought I’d have it.”
You cupped his face. “You earned it.”
Simon kissed you slow, like he could bottle this moment forever.
And maybe—just maybe—he could.
—
The Next Morning
You woke to the smell of pancakes and the sound of tiny feet thumping down the hall.
Simon’s voice drifted in from the kitchen.
“Alright, champ—one more flip, then you do the syrup.”
You padded out, still in one of Simon’s shirts, hair messy.
Tommy looked up from the stool he was perched on, beaming. “Mummy! We made breakfast!”
Simon looked up and smiled, eyes soft.
“Family tradition,” he said, setting a plate in front of you.
Tommy hopped off the stool, ran over, and threw himself into your lap.
You looked at them both—Simon, shirtless in flannel pants, Tommy in his dinosaur pajamas—and felt that ache again. The one that came from too much love in one room.
He was your little shadow.
And Simon?
Simon was finally standing in the light.
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
