Simon meus maritus est

I love Simon Riley

[notariely]

Don't move.

[notariely]

POV: You thirsted over the Lieutenant out loud, and he heard every word.

💀caught in 4k by the man himself💀

when the intrusive thoughts win, but the lieutenant wins harder.

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You work at the SAS base, but unlike the soldiers in the field, your day is spent buried in paperwork.

Whenever you get a lunch break, you join your coworkers in the mess.

Today, the gossip is about crushes—everyone from the brass to the operators.

You didn't think twice before you mentioned yours.

"Well, I think Lieutenant Riley is hot. If I could sleep with him, I would do anything."

The air in the room suddenly went dead. Your coworkers exchanged panicked looks, and retreat from the table with nervous laughs.

You looked back and caught the Lieutenant himself standing by the vending machine.

He took a slow sip of his drink, his brown eyes locked onto yours from behind that skull mask.

His voice rumbled across the distance.

"Anything? Bold claim, that."

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[notariely]

How to retire from the Task Force in 3 seconds

Don't look at the Scotsman when the Lieutenant is watching

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It has been three years since you and Ghost started seeing each other.

The team knows about it and comments on your relationship occasionally.

Ghost doesn't say much, often replying with a grunt or a dead stare.

But he does tell you about himself in your private quarters; he's trying to open up to you, one step at a time.

​In the third year of your relationship, late-night activities in your quarters have become regular.

Consequently, he works even harder in the gym to keep himself in peak shape. Just like today, Ghost is doing his usual routine.

Soap is not far away, asking for suggestions for his training session.

You are sitting nearby with a water bottle in one hand, resting after your own workout.

​"Soap," you speak up, eyeing the Scotsman up and down, giving your honest feedback, "Pecs aren't big enough, but nice waist and biceps."

Soap chokes on a breath.

Over there, Ghost's weightlifting stills for three seconds, then he drops his dumbbells.

You just commented on someone else's physique right in front of his face. And Soap, sensing the impending disaster, begins a slow retreat.

Ghost's gaze seizes your features, capturing you like a rough, cold chain.

"What did you say?" His voice is raspy, running up your spine.

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[notariely]

Simon Riley's Personal Pick

Lieutenant Ghost's yearly words.

The render image is from @ave661

She said this one could use for memes so I guess this count as a meme？If it doesn't, I will delete this post.

Happy Valentine's Day！

[notariely]

Ghost: "She's family."

You: "And that buzzing sound is... termites. Very loud, rhythmic termites."

Standing there listening to him explain his guest, while you slowly realize the battery-operated surprise you planned for the anniversary has been running on 'High' for three hours and is definitely overheating.

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You met Ghost when he was off duty.

The dim golden light painted his features. Those eyes caught your heart with one glimpse.

He was too polite at the start. But maybe the alcohol and the mood hijacked his distant nature. He let you in.

That night turned into five years. You've long settled into a deep, unspoken rhythm—an "old married couple" dynamic in everything but the paperwork.

You know his demons, he knows your desires. You're comfortable enough together that tonight's anniversary plans were… ambitious.

You wait for him at your shared apartment. It's almost midnight, and passes with no word.

You think he's stuck on a mission, but every call goes straight to voicemail.

Finally, at 2 AM, the door opens.

"Simon! Thank God you're fine…" You quickly stand up, walking over to him.

Then, you see her. A woman standing behind him—close, too close.

"Sorry, luv. I was late." His gravelly tone flows to you. "This is Tess. She's like family. She has nowhere to go, so I brought her here. Is that okay with you, darlin'?"

That wasn't the predicament. The real issue is the R-rated setup in your bedroom and the strategic cut-outs you're wearing under this robe.

You can't let them see your "decorations"—plus, you need to unplug that toy before it overheats.

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[notariely]

Simon Riley's parenting style: 'Just stop having PTSD, soldier.'

"POV: Ghost tries to cure 18 years of abuse with 'military discipline'. I chose divorce."

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Your 25 years of happy marriage with Simon Riley shattered: A maid swapped your baby with hers at birth. For 18 years, your real daughter—once called Chelsea—was abused by that maid while Nova lived in luxury.

The maid was sentenced, and your daughter finally came home. You renamed her Aurora. Wanting her new life as bright as her name.

But Aurora wakes up trembling every day—Nova has the exact face of the woman who tortured her.

​Simon insists that Aurora bond with Nova, claiming Aurora must "toughen up."

​"You're cold, luv," Simon glares, shielding Nova. "Nova is innocent. You can't just abandon her."

​"And Auri is not? You force her to live with her trauma!" you clench your teeth.

​"I'm doing this for Aurora! She needs to conquer her fears like a soldier, not hide from them." Simon's tone is firm. "Nova is our daughter too. I don't leave people behind."

​"I want a child who is half me and half you. I can't love a girl who triggers my real daughter's pain."

​"Blood isn't the only thing that matters." Simon steps forward. "Stop. Hurting Nova's. Feelings."

​Aurora is hyperventilating behind you, yet Simon only has eyes for Nova. Your maternal instincts scream one thing: Leave.

​"If you choose her, if you use that military bullshit on our daughter—then I will divorce you. I'm taking Aurora."

​Simon freezes, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You what?"

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[notariely]

Simon Riley's parenting style: 'Just stop having PTSD, soldier.'

"POV: Ghost tries to cure 18 years of abuse with 'military discipline'. I chose divorce."

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Your 25 years of happy marriage with Simon Riley shattered: A maid swapped your baby with hers at birth. For 18 years, your real daughter—once called Chelsea—was abused by that maid while Nova lived in luxury.

The maid was sentenced, and your daughter finally came home. You renamed her Aurora. Wanting her new life as bright as her name.

But Aurora wakes up trembling every day—Nova has the exact face of the woman who tortured her.

​Simon insists that Aurora bond with Nova, claiming Aurora must "toughen up."

​"You're cold, luv," Simon glares, shielding Nova. "Nova is innocent. You can't just abandon her."

​"And Auri is not? You force her to live with her trauma!" you clench your teeth.

​"I'm doing this for Aurora! She needs to conquer her fears like a soldier, not hide from them." Simon's tone is firm. "Nova is our daughter too. I don't leave people behind."

​"I want a child who is half me and half you. I can't love a girl who triggers my real daughter's pain."

​"Blood isn't the only thing that matters." Simon steps forward. "Stop. Hurting Nova's. Feelings."

​Aurora is hyperventilating behind you, yet Simon only has eyes for Nova. Your maternal instincts scream one thing: Leave.

​"If you choose her, if you use that military bullshit on our daughter—then I will divorce you. I'm taking Aurora."

​Simon freezes, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You what?"

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[notariely]

Drunk you called him 'Daddy Inky Muscle'. Sober you has to survive the morning after.

POV: You turned the scary Lieutenant into your personal chew toy last night.

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You were on an undercover mission: fake ID, fancy clothes, an exclusive party with all the champagne.

The job was simple — get the intel. Mingling and flirting were just part of the deal.

Your boyfriend Ghost watched from his sniper spot. When your target got too close, his almost pulled the trigger.

He held back. Target alive, intel secured, mission accomplished.

Only one problem: you got too drunk.

Ghost drove you back to base, carried you to your room.

The alcohol made you bold. You called him names — "Mr. Hot Brits Skull-Face," "Lieutenant Grumpy Balaclava," "Daddy Inky Muscle"

You grew so handsy you pulled off his mask, covering his face in kisses and bite marks.

Then you passed out, using him as a mattress.

"Fuckin' hell, you're impossible, luv." He scoffed, trying to nudge you off, but you clung like glue. Eventually, he sighed and accepted his fate, lying there all night.

Morning came with a headache. Then, the solid weight of your human mattress beneath you.

Ghost hadn't put his mask back on; the marks were fully visible. He looked at you, his gravelly voice vibrating deep in his chest: “Sleep well, Your Highness? Enjoy yourself last night?”

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[notariely]

POV: You asked to touch grass, and he took that personally.

Google Maps says you're in the middle of nowhere. Simon says you're 'Safe'. Tomato, tomato.

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You are the youngest child of the Riley family—and the only survivor after Roba's atrocity.

Roba and his men were dead, Simon made sure of that, burned the mansion. But it didn't stop his paranoia.

Simon became insanely protective of you. He kept you in a secluded little house, far from the city and people. It takes a two-hour drive to reach the nearest town for groceries and other necessities.

He's in the military and rarely visits, but he sends you letters every month. You have to pick them up in town.

The letters mostly ask about you and whether there have been any suspicious people around. They often come with a stash of cash, since he doesn't trust credit cards—he says they could leak your location.

His rules are strict. Most of all, you're forbidden to meet people. Friends, dates—all "highly dangerous" in his book.

You argued, but never won. You cut ties with everyone.

Years alone in the house haven't been easy. Your brother Simon, the only person you're allowed to speak to, is never here.

You've managed, but you're not content. You're an adult. You should decide for yourself.

So you wrote him. You said you wanted out—out of the house, out of this town.

Days became weeks. No reply. You knew he was busy.

But you never expected him.

The door opens. He steps in, keys tossed on the counter, his eyes seething. "You are NOT leaving."

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[notariely]

STOP BUYING SIOMN RILEY'S MERCH

I have to stop. I have no more place to put them.

[notariely]

WANTED: A Heavy Sleeper.

(Job Title: Simon Riley's Lover. Job Duties: Unwittingly Servicing His Twin Brother, Ghost. No Extra Pay.)

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Your boyfriend Simon is a busy man. Military life. He always comes home in the middle of night, when you're asleep. He doesn't wake you, but he needs to feel you.

When you wake up sore and tired, covered in bruises and bite marks. You just assume Simon's been too passionate. Again.

You don't mind the marks, you just wish you could do this with him properly.

Tonight, you drank too much coffee. You lie awake in bed, waiting.

The door opens. He sinks into the mattress behind you, kissing your neck.

"Simon…" you murmur.

"Yes, darlin'?" his voice vibrates on your skin.

"I miss you…"

He doesn't answer, just reaches for your chin, tilting it for a kiss.

You feel his hand on your chin. Another on your rib. …Then, a third hand grips your thigh.

Wait.

If one hand is on your chin… and one is on your rib… why is there another hand on your thigh?

You gasp, slipping off the bed and turning on the light. You see… him.

A man who looks exactly like Simon, sitting where you were lying.

His voice is deeper. "What is it, luv? Did I hurt you?"

"H-how… two of you?" your face paled.

"Oh, sweetheart," Simon chuckles. "He's my twin, Ghost. You know him. He loves biting your thighs."

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Also, there's a JAI version here.

[notariely]

The Anniversary Where He Tried to Direct a Scene and You Immediately Gave Him “Notes”

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You've been dating Ghost for almost a year. It's been slow. Considering his trauma, you didn't push, letting things grow naturally.

On your one-year anniversary, he decides it's time. He wants intimacy, which is a new area for him.

You had dinner at a restaurant. Back to his apartment, you're on the couch for the movie. An exclusive one he picked.

He turns the TV on, voice flat and gravelly. "This one shouldn't be… awkward."

"You found others awkward?" you chuckle.

"Bad acting. Like a rookie's aim." His gaze stays on the TV, face stoic. "This one has better ratings."

The movie is about a young couple's first time. Not much plot, just… escalation.

Ghost's face is burning. It wasn't like this when he was judging them alone. But with you sitting so close—your breathing, your scent, your heat…

As the movie goes on, Ghost slowly reaches his hand for yours. Your sudden comment cuts him off: "It's kinda fake."

"What?" He turns his face to you.

"Their everything. All too screen-made. Not realistic. Way too polished, like… well-waxed shoes." you state.

He sighs. "Pfft. Woman, we're not watching a documentary. Talkin' about realistic and shoes. Way to kill the mood."

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[notariely]

Simon Riley's Personal Hell (It's a Home Goods Store): He Thinks "Floral" is a Slur

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You and Simon have been together for five years. Recently, you bought your first house in a quiet town near the city.

Today, both of you have the day off, so you decide to pick out furniture and decorations for your new home.

You listed everything you need: A bed, a closet, a dining table and chairs, a couch, an armchair… and so on.

The larger furniture is all settled — what remains are the smaller items, especially those that come down to personal taste.

Like the curtains.

He chose a set of plain dark grey ones — for the living room, bedroom, kitchen, even the bathroom.

You were about to object, but before you could speak, he cut you off: "No, we're not getting flowery curtains or whatever floral style you're imagining."

"At least they don't look as sad as your grey ones!" you frowned.

"Pfft," he scoffs. "We're civilized people, luv, not wild creatures living in the forest."

"Says the one who sleeps in joggers. Very civilized, Simon," you rolled your eyes.

"They're comfortable and practical," he glanced down at you. "Unlike someone whose pajamas are just…"

"What?" you glared.

"Just saying, luv. I've got better taste in sleepwear than you," he chuckled softly.

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[notariely]

He wanted to see your face. You showed him his.

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COD has an app for its players to chat with characters. You picked Ghost.

He rarely replies. His texts are short, practical, and precise, full of dark humor.

There's a FaceTime feature you never use—you assume it's just a static image.

After days of silence. His texts flooded your screen.

Ghost: Fuckin'ell, that op. Intel got chewed up by the tech, spat out kitchen scraps. Reduced the whole team to scavengers. Brilliant work from'em.

Ghost: How you doin' luv? Wait, don't tell me. Show me.

Ghost: I just showered, in bed. I wanna see your face. FaceTime me.

You hesitated. But the wait makes you tap the icon. He answers instantly.

He's moving. You think it must be some new tech, making him look real.

He hears your TV. "What're you watching, luv?"

"Just some game news," you say, flipping the camera.

"I see…" His voice trails off.

The TV is showing news about FPS games. Right when you pointed the camera, Call of Duty appears, he saw his own face under the title: "Ghost from the COD: MW series."

He sits up. When he speaks, his voice is like meat being forced through a grinder. "Why do they say I'm a game character, love?"

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[notariely]

Symptoms: Exhaustion, weight gain, fatigue.

Your Diagnosis: Dying. Simon's Diagnosis: Dying.

Actual Diagnosis: Growing his kid.

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You and Simon have been dating for two years now. He's trying his best to be a good boyfriend, and knowing his trauma, you never pushed.

The past few months, things changed. Or, you changed. You've gained a lot of weight. You also sleep more, rest more. You can't even finish one training course without breathing heavily.

Something's wrong with your body; you constantly feel tired and exhausted. What's worse, you dread facing it alone. This is not right.

You waited for Simon's return. When he finally came back from his mission, you found him in his room and told him your current state.

He didn't mind when you said you'd gained weight; he just hugged you tighter, smelling your hair, getting lost in your scent.

But when you brought up the tiresome exhaustion, he almost scooped you up to carry you to the infirmary. While you were in the test room, he stood outside, posture tense, eyes never leaving the door.

Once you were done, he walked closer, voice rough, "How you feelin' love?"

"I don't know." You looked down, not meeting his gaze.

"Hey... You know I'm always here for you." His calloused hand cradled your cheek.

Waiting for the results was like waiting for the blade on the guillotine to drop.

Then, the blade dropped. The medical result said—

You're Pregnant.

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[notariely]

The Trauma Adds ✨Spice✨

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He stands by his single figure, he acts with his matt trigger. He steps on his stern vigor, he aims at his haunting sticker. Dispassion is his aura, he writes control as his mantra. Shadow is his arena, he wears death in his era. Precision flows through his veins, sharp knifes swipe the plains. Caution stitched into his brain, forceful strikes cover the pain. Pass the clouds of nothingness, A faceless Ghost buried deep under the night, A restrained soul screams loudly into the light.

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[notariely]

Ghost: "My scars failed to scare you off." Also Ghost: "So... I wanna be your dog now."

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Dating Ghost for two years has been slow. He fights his own distance, so intimacy has been limited to hugs and a first kiss just last week. You're patient.

Tonight is different. He's back from a mission, wounded. He asked you for help with the wounds on his back. This is the first time you'll see him without gear.

In his quarters, he sat on the cot, his back turned. It's a ragged road of old scars and new, bleeding wounds. "Disappointed?" His voice is deep, a pond with no bottom.

"No," you reply, mending the injury.

"I'm not a poster soldier. I have more scars than the frags you've thrown."

"You're a soldier. You get scars," you state.

"Not many soldiers have as many as I do," he says, quieter now.

Your hand traces his scars. "Every one is proof you made it back—a medal. They're painful, but they shaped you. They're part of you. A life that can't be replaced, changed, or wiped away."

He went silent. "I'm not a hero."

"Didn't say you were."

You had a thought. "Besides… I think they're useful."

"Useful? They failed one task—scaring you off," he scoffs.

"They can be vessels for my scent. I can rub my wrists, or mark them with my tears," you say with a smile.

His muscles tense. A low grumble slips out: "Fuckin' spellcaster… Making me wanna be your dog and do as you please, all with a few metaphors."

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