When you were pregnant, Simon was so worried she would be huge like he was. He lived in terror that the birth would be horrendous for you. He felt so guilty, blaming himself for a scenario that he made up. The thought of doing anything to hurt you was torture for him.
But, when she came out, she was tiny. Little fingers and just over 5lbs. Simon had never held something so little. He could hardly even believe it when he took her into his arms for the first time. This tiny little thing was his and yours. Perfect and ridiculously miniature.
Her little fingers wrapped around his thumb as she makes little frustrated sounds. “Don’t think she’s a big fan o’ me, Lovie.” It comes out as a joke, but for him, it’s a half truth. One of his biggest fears coming out, trying its hardest to damper his mood.
“She’s just hungry, Si. She likes you plenty. She’s only about an hour old.” You smile tiredly as you look at your large husband cradling your impossibly tiny little girl.
Your daughter pulls his thumb forward, trying to nurse on him. “Ah wrong one, darling. You’ll need mummy for that.” He laughs. You swear if you didn’t know any better, you would think he was crying.
t141 are used to simon muttering about his missus. to be honest johnny and kyle thought he was insane, because there is no way in hell lieutenant simon 'ghost' riley has a wife. especially one that he describes to be so soft and sweet.
when they pry and ask about you, he happily tells details, but will never disclose your name or show them a photo. he just has to keep you alllll to himself. naturally kyle and johnny don't believe him.
then simon starts arriving on base with lunches. real good lunches. johnny watches in envy as simon will lift his mask over his mouth and open his little (big) box, juicy steak covered in a real nice sauce.
"y'must be an awful good cook sir" johnny mutters, entranced in the smell of good food.
"told ya my missus makes it for me" simon would grunt. he silently pockets the small notes you would leave him.
i miss u <3
or
im proud of u <3
or
want u to fuck me real good tonight ;)
he would pocket the latter to jerk off to in his office later.
one day simon forgets his lunch. and being the everso caring and worrying wife, you rush down to the base to bring it to him.
when a pretty thing such as yourself arrives on base, the recruits can't keep their eyes off you. especially johnny who approaches awful confident.
"you lost lass?" he can't help his eyes drifting to your pretty tits spilling over your top.
"no" you bat your pretty lashes at him, "my husband left his lunch at home, i thought i could give it to him!"
johnny nearly fell to his knees in agony when you said husband. sighing he said, "aye then, do you know his rank or platoon number?"
you hum trying to recall. "i think task 141, his name is simon riley." you quickly reconfirm, "oh wait everyone here calls him ghost"
johnny stops dead in his tracks.
"you're LT's wife?"
you look up at him with a pretty smile and nod proudly. johnny had to hold back a groan, god you were beautiful.
and you were real.
you follow behind johnny while he leads you to simon and when you reach his office, johnny knocks once.
"come in" is grunted out slightly harshly
any hostility is quickly wiped off simon's face when he sees his pretty little wife standing next to his sergeant.
"hi si! you forgot your lunch" and you almost gallop over to simon in excitement holding out his lunchbox for him.
fuck. when is it johnny's turn :(
"you're excused soap" simon grunts, "although i'll get you to escort her back off base so stick around."
thats how johnny ends up sitting outside simon's office getting having to listen to the clattering of items on simon's desk as well as your sweet moans and whimpers while simon thanks you for making his lunch.
he can't stop staring at you when you stumble out on shaking legs with messed up hair and smudged lipgloss.
he has got to tell kyle that not only are you real, but you're fucking ethereal.
vacation!john price makes the most of his time off by folding you–the pretty thing he caught staring at his rental boat–in half so he can come inside you nearly every night. he's bending your legs in ways you didn't know possible, pushing your thighs to your chest so he can see the mess you're leaking around him. sometimes, if he's lucky, the light will catch you just right, the man to grunting and cooing at the shining ring of cream at the base of his cock.
"f-fuck, you're deep... feels... feels good." your praise comes out as a stuttering, slurred mess. "really fuckin'–oh, god–s'good."
"christ... s'too bad holiday's almost done, dove." john groans out the reminder, a touch of sad slipping in just under the puffs of pleased breaths. you whine at the hand he presses onto your belly, the sound and sight distracting john, who just tilts his head with pride in his grin. "oh, fuckin' looook a'that, huh. think i might have'ta take ya back home with me... would be a shame ta let a face 'n hole as pretty as yours get away too easy, wouldn't it?"
all you can do is gush and slosh around john as he keeps stuffing himself inside you. holding your knees and puckering your lips every few thrusts so he'll rub his hairy front against your chest and belly every time he bends to kiss you.
Simon who doesn't know how to ask for your affection!
It's not that he thinks it's stupid for a grown man like him to ask for something so...childish like cuddles and kisses. What is he? A five year old? He rarely got hugs and kisses from his own mum, he doesn't need it.
It's not like he'll die without it. He'll just wait for you to initiate, like you always do.
Except you're way too busy right now, too caught up in whatever you're doing to even notice he's been standing there and staring at you for the past five minutes.
He's been debating the whole time if he should just ask you for a kiss, but his feet and mouth refused to cooperate with him, leaving him hanging there to stare at you.
"Hm? Did you need anything?" You ask, finally noticing him as you wonder how long he's been there. Must've been a while.
He shook his head instinctively, but his lips formed a thin line and his face held a displeased look. It looked like his words were trapped in his throat.
Luckily for him, you could read him like a book now. It wasn't easy since it didn't come with some sort of manual or tutorial, but it was definitely worth it since you knew that this meant he wanted a kiss from you.
"Do you want a kiss?" You ask again, looking up at him expectantly.
God, you don't think you've seen anyone nod that fast.
(dis was written in like five minutes i havent written for cod in a good while i havent refreshed yet dis is bad)
Simon didn't want to have a big, beautiful wedding. His ideal celebration would be to go to the courthouse and sign the papers, maybe go to the pub or party with your friends in your backyard.
You, on the other hand, already had a whole day planned out. From the colors of the napkins to the floral arrangement, you handled it all carefully. You never got mad, just quietly adjusted anything that didn't fit into your vision. You'd politely decline a bakery when they didn't have the exact decoration you wanted for your cake and found another one as quickly as possible.
One night while you and Simon were sitting in bed, you gasped, sitting upright. You shoved your phone into Simon's face.
"Look!" you exclaimed.
"I can't see if you hold the phone so close to my face," Simon grumbled.
When you held it further away, he saw the page you were on. A wedding painter.
Simon thought it was annoying. A random woman who didn't even know you trying to capture not only your physical appearance but also your energy. It was silly, the person lingering in the background and studying, watching, listening, painting, spying.
When Simon saw the painting though, he nearly cried. The colors were as vibrant as he remembered them and the painter was in love with you too, apparently. It looked like you, so much was obvious, but it also felt like you in a way he thought only he could see. Smile on your face, warm and kind, and your face glowing.
“Why is she here again?” you muttered under your breath as the influencer clomped through the mud in tactical boots cleaner than your mess kit.
“For PR,” Soap whispered, like it was classified intel. “And because someone hates us.”
The influencer—Tiffany or Tiff or whatever—gave Ghost another lingering look like he was a shirtless firefighter in a calendar. “Ghosty, can you show me how to hold the big scary gun again? Pretty please?” she cooed, doing something horrifying with her eyelashes.
Ghost didn’t look up from checking his gear. “No.
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. She turned her death glare on you like you'd just stolen her ring light.
During drills, she "accidentally" pushed a duffel into your path. You tripped, took a dirt dive, and landed face-first in gravel. “Oopsies,” she said, not sorry at all.
Price barked at you in front of the squad. Ghost glanced your way, jaw tight. You grunted and kept walking. You’d live. Probably.
It wasn’t until the field op that things got serious. A misfired flare caused a small explosion, splitting the team. You and Ghost ended up holed in an abandoned barn with limited comms and nightfall closing in.
“You alright?” he asked, checking your shoulder where shrapnel grazed.
“I’ll live. You?”
“Better now that she’s not here,” he muttered.
You chuckled, the sound low and tired. “You know she sees me as a rival?”
“Figured. She stares at you like she wants to murder you with a glittery bayonet.”
A silence hung between you, thicker than smoke. Then—
Ghost reached out, his gloved fingers surprisingly gentle as they hooked under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The harsh shadows of the barn softened around him, and for a second, the chaos outside completely faded.
With his free hand, he reached up and slowly pulled the edge of his mask up just past his lips. Before you could even register the rare sight, he leaned in, his breath warm against your skin. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, tasting faintly of mint and rain, sending a sharp jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
He lingered there for a heartbeat, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, wiping away a streak of dirt. "I've been wanting to do that since you took that dive earlier," he murmured, his voice a low, rough purr right against your ear. "You look devastating when you're angry."
You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, your breath catching in your throat as you wrapped a hand around his wrist, pulling him just a fraction closer. "Is that a confession, Lieutenant?"
"It’s a promise," he breathed, his hand shifting to cup the back of your neck, you could feel the heat radiating off him. "When we get back to base, I'm showing you exactly what you mean to me. Understood?"
Before anything else could be said, the door burst open. Tiffanie stood there, red-faced and holding her phone.
“I demand to be extracted! This lighting is heinous, and nobody told me there’d be spiders!”
Ghost pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Ma’am, calm down—” you tried.
“I knew you’d sabotage me! You’re just jealous!”
And that’s when she grabbed your vest.
You sighed, pulled out your taser, and shot her square in the thigh.
She collapsed like a diva in a soap opera.
Ghost looked down at her twitching body. “..You didn’t even hesitate.”
“She’s lucky I didn’t set her eyelashes on fire.”
Ghost stared at you, then nodded. “I’ll back your report.”
You shrugged. “Self-defence.”
Then you looked back up at the team who flooded in right at the moment, spoke deadpan. "You saw Nothing".
The squad looked anywhere but at them as the sky suddenly was a lot more interesting. "Must have been the wind.", they said in unison.
You felt him before you heard him. The mattress dipped down low, hesitant.
Simon.
He had come home mere minutes ago from deployment, and still smelled like gun powder. Much to your chagrin, you couldn’t deny the fact that you very much loved your husband’s scent.
His gloved hand floats above your head for a moment before removing the gloves entirely. Only then did you feel his warm hand caress your cheek. “Such a pretty bird, hm?” He murmurs to himself, letting his finger brush away hair strands from your face.
He stays there for a minute, watching your closed eyes flutter every now and then, before changing clothes. Changing into something safe.
When your eyes opened, the sun was peaking through the blinds. All you could feel was warmth from the body next to you, warmth you haven’t felt in weeks. You roll over, as much as you could in his tight grasp, and met his eyes.
“You’re back,” You said groggily, burrowing your face against the crook of his neck. “I thought you were supposed to come home next week. When’d you get in?”
“Few hours ago, love,” He pressed a kiss against the side of your head. “Price let me off easy.” Another kiss. And another. God, you missed it when he was this clingy.
“Good. I would’ve had a word with him if he didn’t.” You mumbled threateningly. Of course, he knew you had meant it. You took his job very seriously.
He made a small acknowledging sound in return. “Sure you would’ve, lovie,” His hand trailed up and down your spine in useless patterns. “Would’ve expected nothing less from my Sleeping Beauty.”
Ermmmm 100 followers? Thank you guys?? Holy cow 🥺🫶
“Mommy,” Your seven year old daughter looks at you. “Why does daddy smoke?”
You pause your movements. Why does Simon smoke? That’s a loaded question with many answers.
It calms him down, settles his aches, makes him feel in control, or maybe because it’s a nasty addiction he can’t break. These might be a little too complicated for your daughter's young mind.
You never were the person to get Simon to stop smoking, nor was it your daughter. He slowed it down though. Sometimes he can handle not smoking a single cigarette, while other days one or two would suffice.
“Daddy smokes because it makes him feel good.” You settle for that. An almost truth. Something to satisfy her.
“My teacher says smoking is bad and it will hurt you. I don’t want daddy to die.” She looks up at you innocently.
You can’t control the strangled sound that escapes your lips. She can’t possibly believe that Simon will die from smoking. Right?
That’s when it hits you, like a punch right to the gut. You’ve seen her throw away his cigarettes, you’ve seen her hide them, asking him if he’s ok after a coughing fit. She worried her daddy is going to die.
“Oh baby, oh no.” You can’t control the tears falling down your cheeks.
“Daddy isn’t going to die. Daddy loves you too much for something that silly to kill him.”
You see a foot in the doorway. You know Simon heard the whole conversation.
