Just A Hoe For A Man In A Mask

Aelin // 25 // she/her //fluff/smut writer // 18+

[strawberryforks]

waves of three // simon “ghost” riley x f!reader

part 3/?

warnings: blood, death, described gore, implied human trafficking, badguysdoingbadthings, (reader is no saint, herself), swearing (very graphic)

a/n: i’ve been sick in bed so there’s really nothing better to do than write. this one’s LONG (idk the word count but it took a minute) and it’s HEAVY, reader has been through it, as has Faith, and everybody else. this update is dedicated to @versacelizz cause nothing motivates me like a comment! i hope you enjoy the read <3

What the fuck was Kate thinking? —Maybe she wasn’t, maybe that was the problem. Maybe, you’d left your son in the care of a crazy-lady and her adorable too-good-for-this-world-wife. You’d pickup your phone and call, you would scream, cuss her out, and shout the only words your mind seemed capable of stringing together (what the fuck), had you not decided to be the predictable freak you always were.

Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

When the jet touched down, you detached your radio from your belt, and ground up the tracking device underneath your combat boots. When your feet landed on solid ground, you repeated the motion twice. First, went your sim-card. Then, your phone. You’d lost the sentimental attachment to the mobile device around number five and this, it had to be in the mid-hundreds.

Reaper was a prolific CIA agent, one of the best to ever walk. She was more than that, too. She was whatever they needed her to be—a thief, a protector, a killer.

A liar.

2013…

Kate was your friend your handler and she had told you about a new mission. She seemed relieved, happy for you and the man she said you were to listen and report to. His name was John, but you would call him Captain Price, no matter how anyone else addressed him. Kate, included. He was a military man through and through—you could tell by his build and the way he carried himself. You could tell by his eyes, too. The ones you pretended not to notice as they scraped over you, sizing you up. “John,” says Kate, not unkindly. She walks up to him and wraps in a quick hug and that tells you to lower your hackles—it tells you Kate trusts this man enough to let his hand near her back without expecting a knife in it. Captain Price brightens when they draw apart, “it’s good to see ya, Laswell. The wife doing well?” and Kate tells him of course, she’s as perfect as the day they met. Then, she steps aside and makes room for your approach. He outstretches his hand, you grip it firmly and shake. He introduces himself and waits for you to do the same. Your mission objective flashes in your mind: work and train among the 141. Keep them safe without letting them discover that is your role. The work they do is important, keep them breathing so they can keep doing it. “Y/n L/n, sir. It’s a pleasure.” He watches you for an extended moment, and you answer what he hasn’t yet asked. “I’m an infantry soldier, sir. Private L/n,” and Captain Price looks to Kate, obvious doubt in his eyes. “She’s the best I’ve seen in combat, John. I wouldn’t stick you with a rook,” and still, the man looks conflicted. He takes in the way you stand with the confidence someone of your make-believe-rank shouldn’t have, next to him. You play your part well—like you always do. “No disrespect, Laswell, but I am a rook. Never-mind my training scores, Captain Price has seen battle fields I’ve never dreamt of, and organized and ran ops that will either be read about in history books or the reason there isn’t a new war on some poor sap of a college kids’ syllabus. I’m a good soldier but I have plenty to learn. I’m a rookie,” you direct your gaze to Captain Price, lifting your head slowly and allowing determination to flood your features, “but anywhere you need me, I’ll be. I’m a quick study and honoured to be joining your task force, sir,” and shit, you should’ve been a used car salesman ‘cause you could sell anything. You could weave a lie like an author with pen and paper. Captain Price and Kate exchanged words you weren’t supposed to listen to, and then he grasped your shoulder. “Welcome to the 141, Rook.”

You were really good at lying.

2014…

“We’re taking fire!” shouted Gaz, ducking behind a wall of some beaten down burning shack. “Hostiles are everywhere, it’s an ambush. It’s a fucking ambush! We need evac—or air support! Shit,” he cursed as the smoke thickened, threatening to choke him out. To finish him before the enemy did. It was dizzying, the fabric he raised over his nose didn’t help a thing. His radio was crackling: it was Captain Price. “Backup is 6 minutes out,” and Gaz let out what he’d never admit was a sob. He didn’t fucking have six minutes and… he’d been separated from Rook—shit, Rook. “Cap,” he rushes, “Rook and I, we were separated back by the fountain. I, I don’t see her. There s’much smoke—“ and Ghost’s voice crackles over the walkie, too. “Sit tigh’, I’ll come get you and we’ll find ‘er. Bastard’s not answerin’ her coms,” and Gaz is certain this is it for him. He doesn’t want it to be it for his team, too. Not Ghost, not Rook. “There’s too many of them and too low visibility! You won’t make it to me, LT. Just… head to the fountain, she’s got to be around there somewhere. And her walkie, it must… it must be broken,” he says—or rather begs. “S’always fuckin broken,” grumbles Ghost and thats when Gaz hears the first BANG! There’s a clock tower several buildings away and in it, is a sniper. The bodies drop one after another. The enemy is picked off everytime they so much as twitch. Gaz watches blood smear across the window of a building he didn’t know was full of hostiles. Bullets split the wooden walls and screams explode from everywhere, “your a live saver, LT,” Gaz breathes, meaning it completely. His lieutenant has just saved his life. Man, oh man; he’d really thought he was a goner. “s’not me,” says Ghost, and then they meet you at the tower’s base. You knew they were coming, of course, though Ghost impressed you. All that bulk, and you’d only had one opportunity to paint the walls with his brain. Gaz… well, he was lucky you were the sniper, lucky that you liked him. Ghost, your lieutenant reached you first. You slipped the sniper into your bag, and shot him a nod. It wasn’t enough, evidently. He grabs you and forces you to face him. “We couldn’t reach you,” and you tell him that maybe your walkie broke when you and Gaz were— “s bullshit, Y/n,” he hisses. Using your first name in the field? Woahhhhh, buddy, and Gaz is giving you space, for some reason. Watching your six like you should be watching theirs while— Ghost looks you up and down and he fucking scowls under that mask of his. Narrowed eyes tell you that maybe, you’ve never seen him mad. He prods your side and no amount of teeth gritting can stop him from noting the pain that flicks through you. “You’re hurt.” A statement, not a question. “It’s nothing, Ghost. I swear,” and he snarls. He’s yanking up your tac vest, and your shirt and spitting molten, “nothin’ but a fuckin liar.” Your name, he says softly though. He barks orders at Gaz and drags you back inside the clock tower to patch your wounds.

You’d always been so good at lying. Then, you met him. He saw straight through you and never let you forget it. You felt seen. You felt known—

2015…

“You scared to spar the lass or what?” asks Soap, fully on Team Rook. Thank god, because you needed some kind of backup, because this? This was a losing fight. A fight you’d lost over and over again—a fight you’d really love to win. “Come on, Ghost,” you goad, “it’s my birthday-wish.” At that, Soap gives you a look and mumbles something you don’t quite catch, “yer off yer heid,” or something like that? Fuck if you know, fuck if you care. Gaz laughs from where he stands in-front of the dartboard, “if all you want for your birthday is to me thrown around a little, I could hop in the ring with you,” and you roll your eyes at his offer, “I could put you to sleep in ten minutes, Garrick. What I want is a challenge,” and you think maybe Ghost takes this to heart. When he leaves the common room, he dips his head and tells you to meet him in the ring, in twenty. You count down the seconds—and excuse yourself, with your practiced poker face. “Gonna turn in for the night, boys,” you lie, and receive your ‘gd’nights’. You meet Ghost in the ring. He doesn’t look phased; that said, you wouldn’t know if he was. If Ghost was a book, you were dyslexic. “You don’t want to fight me, Rook,” he says when you step inside the ring, when you size him up and look for weak spots that aren’t there. You laugh, “Oh yeah? I don’t? The hell do I want then, Ghost?” he shrugs and dodges the first punch you throw—he recognizes that there’s no real weight behind it, and you try not to. “You’re supposed to tell me that. It’s your birthday,” and why did he come down here if he was just going to dodge? You land a hit and nothing changes, he doesn’t hit you back, just keeps moving, just keeps his eyes on you. “I want you to fight”, “we are,” he says. “I want you to try,” you tell him, fists raised to stop a punch you know isn’t on it’s way. “No,” he says, “you want me to hit you.” He stops engaging, stops moving — but keeps on watching you, of course he does. “I’ve watched you fight. Y’let hits lands that shouldn’t. You skip out on the medic unless I drag you there. Rook, m’not draggin you there tonight on your fuckin birthday,” and sue you because you’re feeling stupid. Like a fool. Embarrassed burns your skin, you feel exposed, laid bare (and notinafunway) so you take a step back. “The fuck did you invite me down here for, then? I’m not interested in being psychoanalyzed”, “You’re not interested in much, are ya?” and you tell him to go fuck himself. “Happy birthday, Rook,” he tells your back, as you storm off.

(still) 2015…

“I hate you,” you tell him, eyes glued to his chest, to the needles you’re dipping in and out of his skin, to the thread part of you wants to tug on. “I fucking hate you, you stupid fucking—“ and Ghost, his mask is lifted up and rests on his nose. His lips, bloody, they curve into a small smile. He says this next thing tenderly, with a softness that makes your hands tremble. “Liar.”

2016…

Bullets are flying everywhere and you can’t find the civvy you were sent here to save. The stock of a rifle slams into your face and shortly after, a boot jams into your side. Your body doesn’t feel like yours. It’s never been, not really. There’s an explosion. Red, and orange, they’re everywhere. Hot and angry flames, hot and bright blood, pouring—fuck, fuckfuckfuck, it’s everywhere. You’re pressing your hands over a gaping hole in a squad mate’s stomach and he’s crying. Or… no, no, you’re the one whose crying. “It’s okay,” he tells you. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” but yes it does. It hurts so bad you think you’re the one dying. You’re screaming and then someone else is grabbing you. There’s pressure everywhere and someone’s saying your name. Gibson is dead, he’s dead and it’s not him—he didn’t know your name, not your real one. No one in this graveyard knew your name so, so… “Breathe, c’mon. Open your eyes love, c’mon,” and it’s Simon, it’s Simon, it’s Ghost. It’s your lieutenant, and you’re crying in his arms. You’re sobbing and he’s holding you. You’re in his lap, curled into his chest and he’s whispering instructions in a tone that you follow instinctively. You breathe, you calm down, and you stop shaking. Then, you push at his chest because you want to wipe your face, wipe the tears, wipe the evidence away. You want to leave—every fibre of your being is screaming: RUN. Simon doesn’t let you. When he finally lets you go, your breathing has evened itself out. He pats the bed and you sit beside him, offering feeble assurances, “just a nightmare,” you say. He doesn’t say much, just looks at you, blue eyes more expressive than you’d ever seen them. “A little more than that, yeah?” and yeah. Yeah, it was. “You wanna tell about it?” he asks, offer gruff yet pressure-less, and for some reason, you do. He stays the night, and you don’t even have to ask him to. Then, in the morning, you catch him shutting down whatever gossip was circulating. In the evening, he shows up outside your door. He has no expectations but he wants you to have choices. He wants you to feel safe; to sleep soundly. “You don’t have to sleep in here,” you tell him. “Last night won’t happen again. I’ll be fine. I have been all this time and—“ he calls you a liar again, in that same soft way. He slips past you into the room, “s more for me than you, yeah?”

(still) 2016…

He keeps you close—always. In the shops, on missions, in bed (he keeps you squished against his chest because somewhere along the line, he’d learned your favourite sound was his heartbeat), he’ll wrap an arm around you, curl a finger in your belt loop, hold your hand. “You like physical touch, huh?” to which he replies, still heavy with sleep, “‘Jus like you, love,” and all of these little things add up. It hits you like a brick to the teeth, that he’s terrified to lose you. He’s scared you’ll leave him, be killed in the line of duty, scared that someday he’ll be made to wake up without you next to him. You reassure him, “You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving you, Si. I’d never do that. Never,”

You’d always been a fucking liar. That time, you didn’t know you were lying—honest. You wonder if he had.

Simon. Here.

He was here.

Working the same unofficial op that you were.

That Reaper was—Reaper, not Y/n. Not Rook, not his wife.

You had to find and rescue Faith.

Simon wasn’t part of the mission but… no. Fuck, no. You can’t, Reaper. You can’t, you tell yourself. Your head is buried in your hands, while you argue with your own damn self.

He’s an unpredictable variable, he complicates things (and ain’t that the truth), I’ll just lay eyes on him, make sure he won’t interfere with my mission, make sure he’s—

No.

Find Faith. “I’m here to find Faith. Si—Ghost, he’s not the mission. He can’t fucking see me. He doesn’t need to, either. He can take care of himself.”

You finish scrutinizing the documents in front of you. The photos, the blueprints—you look at the layout of his mansion and commit it to memory, you do the same with warehouse number two but there’s not too much you need to study there. You know the hallways (you see them some nights), you know how the basement is arranged. Which doors are locked, where the windows are. You know where the cages are, where he ties his victims up, where he cuts them up. You read the shipment schedules Kate has provided you with, and the profiles on all of the men closest to him. There’s a woman, too, called “Telayne”, how progressive of Naseer, hiring a woman instead of beating her. Too bad you’ll kill her too, if she gets in the way.

You’ve never had a problem with gender equality. All bodies bleed the same, and all that.

You dump the arm-load of papers into the fireplace, even though you’re tempted to keep the photo of Naseer, to pin it up and practice throwing knives or darts or especially sharp forks.

The floorboards aren’t sound—you appreciate this, when you’re lifting one up, jamming the weapons you don’t need underneath them, between rotting wood and dirt. You don’t remove anything from your holsters, they’re all discrete and hidden anyways. All you take from the slew of weapons Kate sent you with, is the mini, and some ammo. You bring ammo for guns you haven’t gotten yet, too. Reaper—you, are a scavenger.

Grenades lie at the base of your bag and in your pocket, there’s a small dose of poison. Enough, should you need it.

—You won’t, but being prepared was never what got people killed.

Bag slung over your shoulder, mask pulled up to your nose, your goggles bridge the gap between the bandana that covers the rest of your face—you tug down your hood, still, peering out of glass that appears matte black to the outside eye. You see through them perfectly and regard them fondly. They’re among your favourite pieces of gear. They protect your identity, robbing everyone else of the chance to see the Reaper. “The grim Reaper’s coming,” you murmur to yourself, sliding between body after body.

By no means do you look inconspicuous but it’s pissing down rain and everyone has better things to do as you slip into the compound behind a man who’s lack of awareness is his downfall. You follow him down the hallway and into the mansion. The door to your left is a supply closet and you thrust your blade through his back and directly into his heart. Your hand clamps down over his mouth, stifling whatever pained noises he makes when you twist and twist. The closet door eases shut and you continue on your way. Staff cleans the place on Saturdays, only. That man won’t be discovered for ages, not until he starts to stink or… or until his blood seeps under the door.

It’s a rookie mistake. You push past it.

There’s tunnels below the mansion, and they lead to the respective warehouses. The plan had been—maim and kill Naseer and retrieve Faith but your priorities had changed now. With Si—with Ghost, in tow, lurking somewhere, being a liability; something you couldn’t even try and predict, you had to get Faith out first. Drop her somewhere he could get to her and conveniently arrange for them to stumble upon the evac-point. Kate would be surprised to see Ghost step onto the jet with your mission objective beside him… or would she be?

It was probably her fucking plan all along.

Two missing operatives for the price of one.

What a di—

Gunfire rings out. A man, he’s shouting in a language you don’t understand, one you don’t need to, to know that these tunnels are about to be flooded with the enemy. They’re dirt—excavated by folks Naseer forced into servitude. You remember seeing some of them, shackles on their ankles. Shovels, pickaxes in their clenched fists.

Ruining their hard work feels disrespectful.

You pull the grenades pin anyways. You lose a knife, sending it through the man’s eye socket. He falls to the floor and neglects his gun while you dive past him, into tunnel number two, and drop the grenade behind you.

Dirt rains down upon you. Rocks come loose and you dive out of their way, scrambling to avoid the contact that would end life just as easily as a bullet to the head, would. The grenade triggers a cave in. The earth you’re running from is disappearing. The ceiling is falling, everything on top of it might, too.

This could be it but—

It never is.

Warehouse two greets you like a bad omen. There’s a cluster of militiamen waiting for you at the archway but their bullets whiz past, and you dive low, right through them. Tendons are slit and bullets ricochet. The walls are metal and the acoustics in this forsaken place announce the blooming firefight. Running to dive behind a stone wall, you use a man as a meat shield. His flesh bounces as he’s hit, and like rocks on industrial grade jello, he ripples but stays solid enough that you manage with only one bullet nicking you. Just a graze, just a fucking graze.

You didn’t need those blueprints. You slip into a room, already knowing what it is and look down at salvation—Naseer’s latest creation sits un-fucking-guarded. A bomb, it’s set on a timer, it’s a big one. An explosion that will decimate everything in a 10 kilometre radius, at least. Thank-you-Mactavish, for the explosives knowledge.

You set the timer—on the bomb, and on your watch, and you close your eyes when you use your knife to sever the wire the same colour as your eyes. It was Naseer’s favourite and had to be connected to a failsafe, to something that could be used to stop detonation, and that simply wouldn’t do.

There was no stopping this.

No stopping you.

Big red numbers appear on a small screen that resembles an alarm clock. 30:00, 29:59, okay. That’s… it’ll work. It has to. You leave the room running, “left you a present!” you shout and when you’re whipping around the next corner the panic begins and the countdown is discovered. “That crazy bitch!” is shrieked, but no ones running in your direction anymore, not as you head further into the facility while they try and flee it.

Down the stairwell, you’re responsible for two more men falling to the ground, bullets in their brains.

28:32, 28:31…

Down the hallway, a third dies by your hands after making the mistake of wrapping his around your throat. The struggle lasts longer than you’d have liked and working air back into your lungs, stings like your eyes do.

26:49, 26:48…

You find the cages. There’s a few girls curled up in the largest one, the sight is nauseating. They wear hardly anything and are covered in dirt, in blood, in grime. The whole entire room reeks of piss and shit and blood. You take the hatchet from your bag and break the bars, knowing that the locks would never give. “Can you walk?” they nod, save the smallest of the bunch. “If you can run, run. This building is going to be dust in,” the watch on your wrist is blinking red, “in 25 minutes.” You shuck of your bag, and hand the strongest of them weapons. “Point and squeeze,” you tell them. Knives press into their shaking palms, too, but you pair the blades with a warning. “Don’t let anyone close enough that you need to use these.” Then you’re playing tour-guide, barking directions and screaming at them to “go, go, go!” they do, one, shooting a fearful glance back at the girl who can barely stand, let alone sprint. “What about—“

“I’ve got her. You worry about yourself.”

The girl slumped against the wall looks up at you, “you can go. You… can worry about yourself, too.”

Frankly, fuck that.

“That’s not my style. Though, I do… I have a pit stop I have to make.” You hand her the last gun in your bag, “like I told them, kid. Point and squeeze—not at me, though, preferably. ‘Cause I’ll be back for you there’s just someone else here I’ve got to get free, first.”

She nods.

You’re in agreement, then.

“I’ll be back,” you swear, running through the hallway. You have a hangun left, your knives, a few rounds. Your knife buries itself in the shoulder of a fleeing militiamen you recognize. He’s got an ugly scar across his face and you lift your goggles for a moment just so he can see who’s about to give him another. “You—“

20:00, 19:59…

“I don’t have the fucking time!” you shout, full of rage you don’t have time to feel. Now’s not the time for a trip down memory lane. You slam him back into the floor and drag the knife through muscle, towards his throat, as he screams and begs for mercy. “The receiving end, isn’t, so nice… is it,” you heave with effort. The blade, it’s edges are serrated, and it’s a bitch to saw through so much. His eyes widen and when they glaze over you push yourself off of him.

The hanging room is empty.

The cutting one isn’t. There’s Faith, carved up like thanksgiving dinner and strapped to the chair that—you hinge at your hips and puke, having barely enough time to lower your mask.

Groggily, she lifts her head. “What—“

“I don’t usually do that.”

“Are you—“

“Your one-woman-rescue mission?”

Nausea aside, you move to untie her. The jagged end of your dagger cuts her binds and hell, she doesn’t look like she can walk either.

Faith surprises you. She hauls herself to her feet even as unsteady as they are and she grabs a scalpel from the metal tray next to the chair. It’s caked in blood, all hers.

“You can have this, if you’d rather,” you say, handing her your gun.

“Who are you? Who sent you?”

“That last bit’s classified,”

“And the first?”

“I’m called Reaper,” the watch reads 18:00, “if you can’t keep up, tell me. We’ve got seventeen minutes to get clear of this place before it’s gone and I don’t know about you, but I’m not looking to be made anymore of a victim by Nas—“ you stop yourself, bite your tongue until it’s bloody. “Hurry up, soldier.”

Something flashes in her eyes at the reminder. She follows you, “we can go this way, it’s where they brought me in—a short cut,” she shouts, tugging on your shoulder. A glance back reveals that no matter her determination she isn’t faring well. She needs that shortcut. “Go! Go, I’ll be behind you when I can be!”

“What? No way, you just said this place was going to blow.”

“There’s a girl—I promised her I’d go back for her,” and I’ve broken enough promises, is what you don’t say. “I’ll be as quick as I can. If you can leave, do it; 10 kilometres from here will have you completely out of harms way. Evac point is in the woods, there’s an old tavern—it’s a straight shot back. ‘Copter will be there at 2100, be on it. With or without me.”

“I can’t just—“

You weren’t a rookie when you joined the 141. You were pretty damn far from being a private, like you’d told Captain Price, too. The authority seeps into your voice easily, the order isn’t one to ignore, “that’s a fucking order. I didn’t save your ass just to hear you’ve turned into pink fucking mist. You copy?”

“Copy.” Faith nods, and takes off, as ordered.

Kate gave the 141 a breath of fresh air—someone who listened.

Good for them.

You rush back to the girl. “Don’t shoot!” you call, announcing your presence and good thing—next to her are three dead men. She hands over the gun and you realize she’s emptied it into the corpses surrounding her. The gun clatters to the ground, with no ammo it’s useless. You have your knives though, still. “You did good,” you tell her and you’ve got 15:00, Reaper. Get out. She wraps her arms around your neck and you haul her up. She isn’t heavy, thankfully. “Hang in there, you’re gonna be just fine.”

There’s 8:30 left when you bust through the warehouse door. 8:29 when you dive for cover, realizing that not everyone’s left. Bullets whiz past you and dumb luck can only last you so long. Rolling onto your side, you stop a bullet hurdling towards the girl on you back with the only thing you have left: your body. It rips through your shoulder and you’ll have to deal with it later because you’re pinned down and you’ve somehow brought a knife and a malnourished teenager to a gunfight.

Shitttt.

Fucking shit.

“Here, stay right here.” You secure her behind a piece of wall that isn’t going to budge for a whole 7:43, and you find a fresh body. One of the militiamen is dead, his firearm alongside him. You run for it—it’s all you can do. Bullets fly from above you but none seem to be targeting you. Deja-vu hits you like a bullet to the shoulder (ouch) and after sliding back behind a junked car, you look up. It’s like the clock tower all over again but this time the roles are reversed. Simon lies on the roof, offering support, and Faith is next to him. With him.

You’re so relieved you almost sob.

Then you check the watch again.

You have six minutes. Barely.

Then, 5:59… 5:58…

[subliminalghoest]

… I mean goddam.

I need more like asap 😱🫢

[dr-paint]

CAUSE I'M A PUNKROCKER YES I AM!

[subliminalghoest]

Safe house 5

Ghoap x f!reader (Part 1 2 3 4)

Dw, I also hate myself.

Warnings: descriptions of violence, blood, angst

This is in no way proof read btw. Also sorry this took me so long to post.

You checked your gear one last time, weapons loaded, comms live, extraction plan ready. Everything was set.

Except him.

The two of you had been almost entirely silent the entire morning. He was throwing plenty of sidelong glances at you, you were acting strange.

“Why is your rifle set up?” Of course Ghost wouldn’t ignore anything out of the ordinary, especially not with how you acted during the mission briefing. You hadn’t run into Soap before you left, luckily.

“Prefer using the scope to check on our target,” you just had to find something to distract him, “Gonna write me up for it?”

He looked at you too closely, studying your expression, “You seem nervous—“

“I’m not.” The response came out like a reflex. You didn’t look at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice you anxiety.

Ghost gently called your name, pulling your eyes to his concerned ones. Seconds passed as neither of you said anything.

He was looking at you like he used to, before everything had gotten so complicated. when the two of you had been able to share space as easily as breathing. As if understanding you was easier than understanding his own mind, perhaps it was at times.

A hand gently encased the back of your neck—applying a pressure which helped ground you. A memory flashed of the time you had been one comment away from breaking after losing your Mother where Ghost did the same thing. His own way of comforting you. Your head fell forward, allowing his thumb to come up to softly stroke your cheekbone.

You could feel his hesitancy, he wasn’t someone easily fooled. You just needed his guard down a little more.

You flicked your eyes up, connecting to brown orbs—and moved. Swift and sharp, you jabbed the syringe into the meat of his arm.

He caught your wrist too late.

"Fuckin' hell—" he growled, stumbling back. His knees buckled as the mild sedative took hold. Just enough to slow him, not knock him out completely.

You grabbed a length of reinforced paracord from your belt and, with practised efficiency, tied his arms and legs. You worked fast, using the task as a distraction from the hurt and betrayal now flooding his eyes.

"You little shit," Ghost growled, struggling against the bindings. His voice was rough with disbelief and fury. "You're drugging me now?"

"Not drugging," you corrected carefully, tightening the last knot. "Sedating. Slight difference."

He gave you a look that promised violence, “This isn’t you.”

You hurried around grabbing all the items you would need.

“Maybe you don’t know me anymore.”

“Oh don’t give me that bullshit.” He scoffed. His eyes followed each of your movements, thinning at you as your fingers brushed his skin whilst attaching the comms unit to his ear.

"You’re staying here," you said firmly. "Watching my six from a distance. If you come after me, you’ll compromise the mission and my safety."

“Like hell you are." he bit out.

You hesitated, then keeping your voice low. "It’s the better play. You’ll see."

His face hardened under your stare. The Ghost his enemies saw becoming real in front of you. You had pushed too far, you knew that for sure now, there was no coming back from this distrust you had built. Now wasn’t the time to think about it, you grabbed your pack and disappeared into the brisk air.

A coldness settled in your chest, leaving you untethered. This wasn’t you; you didn’t need Ghost to tell you that. You’d already made your choice, and now you’d have to live with it, no matter how loudly your heart screamed traitor, urging you to turn back and let Ghost in again.

Static buzzed softly in your earpiece as you moved through the desolate streets, every step careful, precise.

Ghost’s voice crackled through a couple minutes later, low and deadly.

"You’re a bloody idiot."

"Good to hear your voice, Ghost," you whispered, checking your corners.

"You think tying me up was clever? When I get out of this—"

"You'll do what exactly?" you asked under your breath. "If you tell Price, you know he’ll never let me on a mission again. Is that what you want?"

Silence, then darkly "You're takin’ advantage of the fact I care about you."

Your chest squeezed. But your tone stayed breezy. “Its called leverage.”

You hadn't spoken this freely with Ghost in weeks, a sharp tug in your chest growing the further away you got. You hope he would forgive you with time, but you supposed you had already become so distant that it wouldn't really matter either way.

A grunt filtered through your earpiece, “Soon as I’m out of these knots, I’m coming after you. This tantrum of yours ends now.”

"You’re not coming after me because I’m already in. You would only draw more attention and risk getting us caught if you came now," you murmured, slipping into a half-collapsed building being used as a temporary base. "And if you were honest, you'd admit you’re a little impressed."

Silence for a beat.

"Pissed," Ghost growled. "Not impressed."

You chuckled quietly as you continued weaving your way through rubble.

"I would've taken an eastern approach," Ghost muttered.

"Don't need the commentary, Ghost" you said.

"Should've thought about that before you left me behind." Ghost didn't quite pull off the light tone he was aiming for, coming out harsher than you think he intended.

The mission unfolded quickly, enemy patrols avoided with skill that would’ve made Price proud.

You fed updates through comms in a low murmur, Ghost giving occasional grunted responses. His anger simmered under the surface, but you could feel his focus, sharp as ever, adapting to the new role you had shoved him into.

Then you entered the main objective building and your comms went silent.

For nearly two minutes.

"Come in," Ghost said sharply. "Status."

Nothing.

“Fuck—” Ghost cursed, pulling out the long-range radio, pacing tight circles. He could hear faint movement, boots, rubble, but no voice. No breathing.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he said, dangerously quiet. “Where the hell are you?”

Still nothing.

Another fifteen seconds.

He was debating calling in backup, consequences be damned, when your voice finally crackled through, hushed and annoyed.

"Jesus, Ghost," you muttered. "Keep your panties on."

Ghost exhaled hard, sagging against the wall. Relief hit him like a truck.

"You were silent for almost three minutes," he snarled. "I thought you were dead."

"Couldn't talk," you said calmly, as if explaining it to a child. "You know... stealth mission? Talking in a hostile-controlled building isn’t exactly smart."

There was a pause.

"You could’ve given me a heads-up, smartass," he muttered.

You smirked to yourself, moving swiftly to your exit point. "Oh, also. Sweetheart?"

Ghost growled low in the comms, and even without seeing him, you could picture the furious expression under the mask.

A smile twitched on your lips, unbidden.

You were about to respond when the hair on the back of your neck prickled.

Movement.

Two shapes burst from the doorway directly beside you, shadows in black tactical gear.

They were definitely not supposed to be there.

You spun, barely dodging the first strike, your back slamming into the concrete wall behind you. One of them lunged. You blocked, twisting his arm and driving your elbow into his throat. He staggered, but the second was on you in an instant, catching your ribs with a brutal kick.

You gasped, doubling over, and dropped to a knee.

"Form's slippin'," Ghost murmured in your ear, cool and observant. "Don't let 'em box you in."

You gritted your teeth, parrying a punch and driving your knife into the first man’s thigh. He screamed. You cut it off at the source with a second slash. The other grabbed your hair, yanking your head back—

“Fuck off,” you snarled, slamming your elbow into his nose. He reeled, blood spurting, but he had grabbed your knife arm and pinned it.

"Breathe. I can't get a clear shot if you keep moving all over the place." He must've free'd himself from the binds and set up at the rifle, you were on the east side directly opposite him, you just needed to get him a clear shot.

You twisted, broke the grip, losing the knife in the process. But he surged back up, bloodied and furious. He got you on your back, straddling your waist, and smashed your head back into the concrete.

Your hands came up to knock him off but your movement felt sluggish. You stared into your attacker’s wild eyes, hands locked on his wrists, arms shaking from the strain.

You knocked his weight to the side, surging your hips up to knock off his balance. His arm was now pressing against your throat, cutting off your air supply.

Bucking your hips you finally unbalanced him, earning you a punch to your jaw. "I don't have a clear shot. You need to move, soldier!"

Ghost sounded angry in your ear.

But he had picked up the knife and began to circle you, lunging to try and find an opportunity to weaken you.

Then a single, sharp crack echoed across the river.

The man’s head snapped back. His body slumped.

You shoved him away, chest heaving, trying to process it. The first man had long bled out beside you.

Your comms crackled.

"Clean shot from 600 out," Ghost said casually. "I'll take my thanks now."

You coughed, wiping blood from your face with the back of your glove. “Bastard.”

"You're welcome, Soldier." A pause. "You gonna need any further assistance?"

You stood, body sore, heart pounding, and looked across the river toward the dark silhouette of the safehouse.

“Nope,” you muttered, popping the 'p', “Thanks for the cover.”

"Anytime. Now move.”

Shouts sounded from close by. You turned and ran toward the exit, bruised and bloody, but alive.

The debriefing room was thick with tension the moment you strode through the door.

Price stood stiff-backed by the table, arms folded, the look on his face halfway between relief and thunderous rage.

Soap was leaning against the wall, hands grasped behind him, staring at you like you'd grown a second head.

And Ghost…

Ghost was a storm barely contained, his arms crossed tight, boots planted like he was holding himself back from physically shaking you.

No one said anything at first.

You offered a weak, tired smile.

"Mission success," you said tightly, eyes shifting over the men you suddenly didn't recognise.

The reaction was immediate.

Price slammed his palm down on the table so hard it rattled. "What the fuck were you thinking?" he snapped, voice rough.

Soap whistled low under his breath, shaking his head. "You’ve got some fuckin' brass ones, I'll give ye that."

Ghost said nothing, just stared at you.

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

"Drugging a teammate?—“

“Sedating.” You cut in.

“—Ignoring direct orders? Going solo into a hot zone?" Price was listing every sin like he was reciting charges in a court-martial. "You think you did a good job didn't you."

"I completed the mission," you insisted, voice hoarse. You were sweating now. not from nerves, but something deeper.

"You compromised protocol," Price barked. "You put yourself and this whole unit at risk. You think we're gonna forgive you for this? You think you're special?"

“No, of course not. I realise I shouldn't have done it but-”

“You made that suggestion and I said no. That should have been final. You disobeyed a direct order from a superior.” Price got up in your face, “I’ve changed my mind. You’re off duty. I don’t care what missions we get, you’re not on them until I say so.”

You opened your mouth to answer.

Nothing came out.

The room tilted slightly, the edges of your vision blurring.

You staggered a step back, the three of them surrounding you, looming over you, blocking out the light in the room.

"You stupid," Soap muttered harshly, voice low and thick. "Stubborn. Reckless little—"

"You should've never come back. We're better off without you y'know-" Price's eyes are drilling into you as he pushes you back, your feet stumbling into a table.

"...Sorry," you croaked.

“Always wanting what Johnny and I have. Tried your best to ruin us, didn’ ya" Ghosts words intimately whispered into your ear sent you reeling backward. "You’ll always be alone."

A hand came out and grabbed your throat, your hands clawing at it as your vision began to fade at the edges. Their faces merging into one. The last thing you saw before you faded into darkness were their eyes looking down at you with indifference.

You choked awake on a shoulder, the gentle sway sending your head spinning.

“—fuck, she’s gone, I can’t see her anymore. Soap, what do I do!” You could hear Ghosts urgent voice in your ear. Your comms still connected to where he was trapped in the safe room, where you left him incapacitated.

You were still on the mission.

You must have made some sort of sound because the soldier next to you glanced over, seeing your eyes blearily looking around.

You could vaguely hear Ghost frantically shouting in your ear. He was being forced to watch you get captured, unable to help due to your earlier decision to leave him behind. You were sure he was furious.

The butt of a gun swiftly took consciousness away from you again, knocking the comms piece from your ear.

The last thing you heard was Ghost shouting your name. Not in anger this time, but fear.

[readwritealldayallnight]

Comatose Confessions

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 4k words

warnings/tags: fluff

Part two to this

He’s barely moved a single inch in the last hour

Though he blinks every so often, his eyes never once stray from where he’s held his gaze so steadily this entire time, as focused as any trained sniper could ever hope to be

Sat on his bed, back against the wall and stiff as a statue, he watches as the faint light creeping in under the crack of his door shifts every so often, the shadows outside refusing to stand still

He knows it’s you

As perfectly silent as you are, he can still see the shadow of your boots pacing back and forth, back and forth, again and again, just outside his room

You know he’s inside

And he knows that’s why you refuse to leave, annoyingly stubborn in your pursuit, determined in your efforts to get the man inside to put an end to his charades

He knows you won’t leave until you get what you want

And what you want, is for Ghost to stop avoiding you

He’s been very carefully, very intentionally avoiding having to speak to you

He can’t bring himself to do it

He just can’t

Not since he’s woken up

Not since his head felt worse than it had in a very long time, mind swimming through a heavy fog in an attempt to fight his way back to consciousness, his entire being had felt shaken to its core and thrown off its axis, his blood running cold with the unmistakable chill of pure, unadulterated fear, not too far off to how he’d once felt waking up with the taste of dirt in his mouth, buried six feet under ground

Only to be jolted into a startlingly opposite reality when he suddenly was able to smell that achingly familiar, enrapturing fragrance he’d come to associate with a certain someone, could somehow feel miraculously soft, gentle fingertips smoothing along his neck into his goddamn hair, an affectionate touch he’d only felt fleetingly as a young boy, and when he’d opened his eyes, he was certain he’d somehow snuck his way past the gates and into heaven

Because above him had been you, and though the light glowing around you burned his tired eyes, you remained a vision so beautiful to behold he could never dream of shutting his eyes ever again, could not help but to instinctually reach out to grasp you, should you vanish before him and he lose the chance to ever hold you, at least once

His brain was still pounding, insistently throbbing as it shocked itself back awake, fighting to take control back as his lips suddenly said the only thing that both his mind and heart could agree upon at this moment, looking up at you:

“Love.”

It was nearly an entire day later, following a flurry of you being whisked out of his room, doctors and nurses fussing over him, his mind and body slowly beginning to feel more like his own again, when Soap came to visit him and all too happily recounted to his Lieutenant what he’d supposedly said upon waking up from his days long coma

After the doctors released him from the med bay or rather accepted that the Lieutenant was going to leave when he wanted to whether they liked it or not, they’d given strict instructions for at least a fortnights rest, wanting to allow his brain enough time to truly recover, concerned that though everything else was checking out fine, that short bout of confusion upon waking could not be looked over when it came to head injuries

Confusion

Is that what they all thought it had been?

He couldn’t exactly blame them, he felt he’d done a more than phenomenal job of hiding the true nature of his feelings for you from anyone and everyone, making it appear as though he was nothing more than indifferent to your existence, far from someone he’d be relieved to see waking up in a hospital bed

No, he’d been far from confused when he’d insisted to anyone who would listen, not caring that anyone’s ears but your own would hear his words spoken with the utmost sincerity, when he called you his girl, his love

No, if anything that was the most honest Ghost had been in a long time

At least since you’d worked your way into his life and apparently his heart along the way

But now, nearly two weeks passed since he’d woken up and admitted to you in his vulnerable state of mind his true feelings for you, after months of carefully avoiding ever letting you know how he felt, months of keeping his distance in hopes of diminishing the gravitation pull he felt whenever you were near, and he couldn’t bring himself to face you

He can’t decide whether it’s a small mercy or not that in the fog of waking up and all the chaos that ensued, that he can’t recall seeing your reaction to his words, can’t remember seeing the look on your face when he admitted the words he would have preferred to have been buried with than to profess out loud to you

A blessing, in that he doesn’t know whether your face twisted up into a look of horror or disgust at his revelation, and a curse, in that he’s had days upon days holed up in his room, imagining every other possible reaction you might have had

Since his release from the med bay, you’ve come knocking at his door, he knows you’ve been asking around base for him, have tried to run into him during those few fleeting moments he trudges to the mess hall and back

Why you’re so determined to confront him, he can’t be sure

To laugh at him? Rub it in his face?

He doesn’t think so, it’s not something he believes you’d so, but then again he’s never had his entire heart held in a pretty birds hands before, especially when he’d never intended to hand the bloodied, somehow still beating thing over in the first place

Maybe you feel sorry for him, hope to let him down easy, or even pretend as though you never heard him in the first place, he’s not sure which would hurt him most if he’s honest-

None of those excuses feel right however, with the way you’ve been seeking him out so persistently, opposite to the neutrality the two of you had less than half a month ago, and so always more at ease in the certainty of his own misery, rather than the misery of uncertainty, he remains hidden from you

Fuck, he hopes you haven’t been speaking to Johnny too much

When he notices your steady back and forth pacing suddenly come to a halt with the shadows indicating you’re stood directly in front of his door, the only movement Ghost allows is the slightest quirk of his scarred eyebrow, gaze intent on where he imagines your form stands just beyond the thick plank of wood separating you

He’s holding his breath, wondering what your next move will be in this childish game of cat and mouse he’s roped you into, when he hears the slightest shuffling from outside, a crinkling sound accompanied by shadows moving about under the door, followed by the sound of your boots echoing away from him and down the hall

It takes him nearly another ten minutes before he dares to move again, already beginning to berate himself for the way he’s behaving like a frightened child, when his eyes lock in on the anomaly on his floor

The sun was just beginning to set when he’d dared to venture out to the mess hall and back to his room quickly, hoping it was the best time to avoid most everyone including you before they ran out of decently edible grub, only just slipping into his room and shutting the door behind him when he’d glanced down the hall and locked eyes with you turning the corner

Now more than an hour passed, the sun long gone and his food cold and untouched, he notices something that wasn’t there before

Slowly, Ghost approaches his door, bending down to a crouch to examine what’s been slipped so carefully underneath the thin seam of his door

A single cigarette

He huffs a silent approving hum, bringing the death stick up to his mask covered nose to smell the bad habit he hasn’t touched in a few days

In all his efforts to avoid running into you, he’d quickly gone through the packs he kept in his room, only daring to smoke them out of his own ajar window like a goddamn teenager hiding the smoke from their parents

He’d smoked his last one a handful of days ago, and had yet to pick up a new pack, his years long addiction to nicotine apparently coming second to his need to continue avoiding you, no matter the cravings he felt

Now however, holding the smoke between his calloused fingers, he finds himself too relieved to begin the logical train of thought that should accompany such a gift from you being slid under his door

Fetching his lighter out of his desk drawer, Ghost steps towards his window and cracks it ajar enough that he can lean his upper half out, prepared to enjoy his cig in peace

What he isn’t prepared for however, as he inches his balaclava up above his crooked nose and begins trying to spark the lighter to life, is for the flames to be reflected back at him through your very own eyes staring up at him, stood directly below his window

“Hi Ghost.” You whisper up to him with amusement, the faint quiver of your lip giving away the mischievous smirk threatening to push through the darkness of the late night hour

You’re quicker than he expects you to be, almost as though you anticipated what his next move would be, when you reach out to squeeze your hand between the window and the pane, just as Ghost hurries to shut it

“What the fuck do ye think you’re doin’?” The Lieutenant growls out, hoping to stall for time as he recomposes himself, internally shaking his head at himself for falling for your trick. Leaving him a damn cigarette like a taunt and waiting beneath his window for him to smoke it was purely childish on your part, but then again, he hasn’t exactly been the most level headed soldier on base recently either he supposes

“Apparently what I have to do to get you to acknowledge me.” You reply casually, refusing to budge your hand away from where it prevents the window from shutting you out. “How long are you planning on avoiding me? Hm?”

“You’re bloody mental if ye think tha’ I-” He cuts himself off with the sharp glance you throw his way, a look that easily reads ‘are you fucking kidding me’ even in the low light illuminated across your features. “Alrigh’, fine. You’ve got me. Your grand plan was to hide ou’ here, like some bloody lunatic, wait for me… and then what? You plannin’ on climbin’ in through the fuckin’ window next?”

Fighting for the upper hand in this situation, Ghost watches as you take a deep breath, eyes quickly scanning the length between the ground and the windowsill, where you’re struggling to keep your hold while stood on tip toes

“Well I was hoping you’d invite me in by now. But I’ll do what I have to.” You decide confidently, raising your chin up high as you hold his gaze, refusing to back down now that you’ve got him in front of you. You must see something in him that puts a slight dent in your resolve however, as he watches your eyes soften ever so slightly, and you begin to shift on your feet. “I just want to talk to you, Ghost. Can’t we at least just do that?”

He fights the urge to grind his teeth as he clenches his jaw, shifting his eyes away from you as he struggles to maintain his composure seeing you standing there bathed in moonlight, a look of genuine sincerity on your face as you plead with him to be reasonable

“Fucking fine. But you’re using the bloody door. Don’t need you causing a scene out ‘ere.” He relents, pulling his hand back from the window pane.

“You promise to let me in?” You ask, hesitating before you release your grip on the glass. He peers back down at you, taking his own steadying breath before he offers a curt but steady nod in your direction. “Good, because my next move was going to be to pull the fire alarm, and that would’ve just been so much more of a mess.”

With that little revelation, he watches your hand slip away from the glass as you tip toe along the edge of the barracks, finding your way back inside. He scoffs to himself as he shuts the windows firmly, shaking his head at your antics as he stares solemnly at the unlit cigarette still pinched between his fingers

What the fuck has he gotten himself into?

Your fist has barely finished its first knock on his door before he’s swinging it open, reaching a large hand out to grip you by the waist and pull you inside before he has the chance to change his mind about this whole thing. He peers his head quickly around the corridor to make sure no one caught sight of anything before shutting the door behind you both, sealing him in with the last person he thought he’d find himself with tonight

He releases his hold on you as quick as he can, taking a large step backwards to put space between you both, eyes raking in the sight of you pressed up against the back of his door, an image he’s pictured many times before in his head but never believed he’d truly ever lay his eyes upon

He watches your own gaze hesitantly sweep around the space quickly, taking in the sparseness of the room. What he wouldn’t do to be able to take a peek into your mind, especially right now

“How’s your head feel?” You ask quietly, eyes shifting back towards the masked man’s visage as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his side. The only answer you get from him is a grunt you’ve heard from him often enough to know translates to ‘fine’. “Soap was telling me that if the docs clear you this weekend you’ll be able to start easing back into work.”

Ghost simply watches as you watch him, slowly lifting one foot before another, cautiously making your way over to his small desk and easing yourself down into the chair, all the while keeping him in your sight, as though he were a wild animal you might spook with one wrong move

“I’m sure they’ll pass you, but between you and me,” you add, leaning back slightly in the chair as a shadow of a smile crinkles in the corner of your lips. “I’d help you forge the docs signature if we had to. I’ve had my fair share of Soap, I’m ready to pass custody back over to you.”

At this, Ghost can’t help the soft chuckle that slips out, watching as the hesitant smile on your face forms into a full fledge smirk at the sound of his approval. With the tension in the room slowly beginning to dissipate already, he dares to allow himself to take his own atop his bed, opposite to you. Still though, he can’t completely let go of the nerves running through him, knowing you’re likely moments away from confronting him.

“You wanted to talk, let’s talk.” His deep voice rings out in the small space, hoping to cut straight to the chase, get this over with

“Right,” he watches you fidget in your seat, eyes leaving his for a moment as you begin to fiddle with your jacket pockets. “Listen Ghost, I- I realize that I might have heard something you didn’t necessarily want me to know.”

‘Yeah, that’s putting it fucking lightly’ he thinks to himself, but allows you to go on with whatever speech you’ve obviously prepare, hoping you’ll at least be quick in your rejection of him, and that this can soon all be a thing of the past

“And I figured if we were going to talk, it would really only be fair to level the playing field, so to speak.” He watches with veiled curiosity as you fish something out of your jacket. In your hands you hold a small, but clearly well loved notebook

“How’s that?” He questions, nodding towards the item in your grasp

“I don’t think I have to swear you to secrecy here but, I used to write in journals a lot, when I was little. Don’t really keep up with it as much anymore, you know how busy we are.” You mention, pulling the strap down from across the front cover and opening the book, fingers sifting through the pages covered in handwritten words of ink and lead. “Every once in a while I’ll write something down, if it’s memorable. But mostly I jot down my uh, well my more embarrassing stories.”

“Why would ye do tha’?” Ghost questions, eyebrows furrowing as he tries not to decipher any of the words he sees on in your book, unsure where this is all going

“Honestly,” you say with a small, airy chuckle. The Lieutenant ignores the sudden feeling in his chest cavity as he comes to the conclusion he’s never seen you smile so often, at least not so up close and personal. “Reading them back makes me feel better. They make me laugh. Especially after a long day or hard missions. Nice to come back to and remind myself not everything in life has to be so… serious, I guess.”

You offer a casual shrug, still thumbing between pages as Ghost takes in your words.

“Anyways, I just thought that, maybe you’d want to hear something I would usually never tell anyone. Make us a little more even?”

He narrows his eyes at you slightly, understanding now what it is you’re trying to do.

He slipped up that day when he woke up from the coma, accidentally made himself vulnerable in front of you and said something he wish he hadn’t, something he’s embarrassed about

And so here you are now, offering to be vulnerable in front of him instead, to grant him access to some of your embarrassing moments and thoughts, level the playing field as you had put it

Yeah, he’ll bite

Again, he offers you no more than a subtle nod in your direction to communicate his agreement, but the way your eyes lights up at this response, you’d think he would’ve just agreed to make you Captain for a day

“Thought maybe we’d start easy. How about the time I accidentally spit my gum out on my CO’s boots? Or when I peed myself during basic-”

Ghost isn’t sure how you’ve done it, whether you knew this was how your cunning plan would work out all along, or if you’ve just gotten incredibly lucky tonight, but as one embarrassing story on your part turns into two, and then three, and suddenly hours have gone by, the stoic Lieutenant finds himself smiling with you, laughing with you, fuck he even starts offering up his own carefully curated stories when you pull an almost full carton of cigs out of your other pocket and toss them to him, the two of you sharing remarks over a shared smoke, hunched over the same window he nearly slammed in your face earlier

“Oh man,” you choke out in small fit of giggles, your hand holding your sides as you pass the cigarette back to him. “We oughta put all your dad jokes down on paper one day, you know why? Because they’re tear-able.”

He rolls his eyes as he takes a deep inhale off the cig, pretending the corners of his mouth haven’t been lifted nearly all night.

“Tha’ was awful.” He mutters, sparing you a side glance before he adds, “A real pun-ishable offence you jus’ committed there.” He doesn’t bother hiding his smirk anymore when your giggles grow louder at that.

“Alright, alright. I suppose my pun-ishment then,” you say between breaths, casting him a glance to see if he approves of yet another one of your corny puns tonight. “Would be to read these last few pages.”

He watches as your fingers dance across the handful of pages making up the end of the journal, yet to be read aloud tonight, your movements appearing hesitant for the first time this entire interaction.

Part of him feels the urge to tell you whatever it is, it’s not necessary, that you don’t have to read anymore about yourself that you don’t want to

Another part however, is far too curious, far too intrigued to know more about you, having learned more tonight from your own lips than he has in all the months he’s known you

“Actually, maybe I’ll just have you read it this time.” You say, reaching the journal out towards him, allowing him that one final glimpse into your personal thoughts. With a calloused palm, he takes the book from your hand, careful not to linger too long on the soft touch of your digits against his rougher ones. Glancing down at the words written haphazardly across the lined paper, he reads:

‘First week with the 141 went by in a blur, don’t think I’ve ever sweat so much on a base before, those men sure know how to train’

‘Captain is nicer than any other CO I’ve had before, and the Sergeants are funny, very welcoming’

‘The Lieutenant is… different’

‘Not bad different (though he might not say the same for me), just different. Hoping to learn more about him soon’

‘One month on the team has flown by, almost can’t remember life before the 141’

‘The lads are great, but the Lieutenant still doesn’t seem keen on me being here. Which is a shame, his teammates speak so highly of him, and his work speaks for itself. Just wish he’d speak to me sometimes’

‘Almost half a year already, if you can believe it’

‘These men feel like family, all apart from the one who still won’t acknowledge me’

‘The lads say not to worry about it, that Ghost will come around eventually… I just hope they’re right. There’s something about him I can’t shake. I find myself thinking about him more than I should’

‘Mission went bad. Lieutenant got hurt and has yet to wake up from his coma’

‘For the lads sake, I hope he wakes up soon’

‘Ghost opened his eyes yesterday…’

‘I don’t know if he meant what he said, or if he even remembers it, but I know I’ll never be able to forget it’

‘This entire time I’ve just wanted him and I to be cordial, to work together, hell maybe even become friends… but ever since he’s said those words… I can’t shake the feeling … maybe friends isn’t quite the right word for us’

Ghost isn’t sure how many times his eyes scan that last entry over and over and over, willing his eyes to believe what he’s seeing right in front of him, not until your hand slowly slips over his own, still holding the journal open, does his gaze flicker up to meet your own vulnerable stare

“I’ll be honest I’m not sure how to- do this.” You say with a slightly awkward chuckle, the vulnerability of the situation clearly starting to get to you as your Lieutenant stares you down wordlessly. “But I wanted to be honest with you. Couldn’t have you wallowing away in here any longer without knowing - well I guess without knowing how I felt too. I don’t know you as well as I’d like to Ghost, we haven’t exactly given each other many chances to do so. But I’d really like to be your… friend.”

His eyes narrow in on the sweet but anxious smile you try to put on through your nerves, your earlier confidence diminishing now that you’ve truly laid your cards out and made yourself as vulnerable as you can before the man who still has yet to say anything.

Ghost takes a steadying breath, eyes never leaving yours as he tosses your journal onto his bed where it lands with a soft bounce.

Vulnerability like this, feelings like this… it’s a grey area Ghost usually tries to avoid at all costs, a field of land mines he’d rather not cross, knowing no one makes it out on the other side unscathed

But with everything you’ve done for him, everything you’ve revealed to him, in combination with the throbbing organ behind his ribs fighting to beat its way back to life since the moment he met you and decided he couldn’t fall for you, Ghost finally relents and says fuck it. You’ve shown more bravery tonight than he has in the last two weeks, avoiding you like you were the plague, and it’s about time he put on his big boy trousers and show some bravery of his own now

“Don’ know it the lads told ya, but I don’ really do friends.” He says, slowly lifting a single boot and cautiously stepping in your direction

“I- I’ve heard.” You mutter, trying not to show the defeat that threatens to come across your features at his words, fearing he’s about to let you down.

The large man takes another step, and another, until there’s suddenly less than an inch of space left between both your heaving chests, and you have to crane your neck upwards while his is tilted down to keep his eyes on yours. Your eyes widen as you watch one of Ghost’s large hands come up into view, sneaking towards the bottom of his balaclava, which has been rolled up with entire time as you both shared some smokes

His fingers pinch the fabric, pulling it up further above his mouth to rest on the crooked bridge of his nose, revealing more of his scarred lips to you just as they whisper:

“But you and I, my love, aren’t quite friends.”

With the way Ghost’s lips come crashing onto your own waiting mouth, you’re inclined to agree with him

Tag list:

@kat-herine00 @unclearblur @anastrashbin @sundaescreamcheese @milanriol @mismatchsposts @xye-weirdo @readingthingy @kitkatkristal1020

@purplegamer99 @idkwhatfor09 @alkalineapparition @lovelycurls @thecattyinthedark-blog @idkwhattodosooo @hao-ming-8 @wh0s-ra3 @cricricorner @tessakate @laduenadelswing @pinkpookiebear

[subliminalghoest]

The way Florence is serving such Aang here is insane.

I can’t find a matching picture so if someone else gets me then PLEASE ADD A PICTURE BECAUSE I KNOW IT EXISTS—

Like this is so Aang coded it’s unreal.

[girlfromflor]

simon didn't even say anything when you asked, he just complied.

"shh– 's okay, baby," he sushes your cries, hand brushing your cheek but his eyes are glued to where you two are connected. "i'm– shit— i'm halfway in already."

"halfway?!" you whine, and both of you giggle at the notion. well, nobody told you to ask your best friend to fuck you with his huge dick. "hate you, simon," you gasp, all bark and no bite.

he kisses your pouty lips, moaning at the way the movement makes him slip a bit deeper in you. "hm, tha' so, luv?"

no, you don't. he knows it and you know it, it only gets more obvious when he's bottoming out with a thumb on your clit and you're coming around him. he can only coo at you, "fuckin' hell– hate me, ya said?" slowly fucking into you. "don't think–" he's cut off but his own moan, you're still clenching around him as you come down from your orgasm. "don't think so, baby."

[subliminalghoest]

Seeing that you don’t have any taken anons….

Could I please be ✨Anon? 🥺

[subliminalghoest]

Safe house 4

Ghoap x f!reader (Part 1 2 3)

Ok... I don't know how I feel about this one... I kinda hate myself for it honestly.

Warnings: angst, angst, angst, suicidal thoughts (more a lack of care about their wellbeing tho)

After locating Price and finding out Johnny was in the medical wing, your heart had almost begun to beat normally again.

Almost.

Not until you saw him with your own eyes. Not until you confirmed every limb, every laugh line, every ridiculous grin was intact, would your pulse settle.

The med wing was low-lit and quiet, and you paused just outside Johnny’s door. You weren’t sure if you were allowed to go in. If they wanted to see you.

But the door was already cracked open, and you heard him laugh—soft, low, familiar. A sound that began to piece together your aching chest. Pushing aside any lingering pangs from the morning with Simon. 

You pushed the door gently.

Johnny sat on the edge of the bed, pale but alive, bandaged but still grinning. His arm was in a sling, and there was a bruised cut across his cheek, but he looked up and smiled when he saw you.

“Look who finally decided to show,” he teased, voice warm, like nothing had changed.

You crossed the room before you even realised your feet had moved, pulled him into a hug, careful of his injuries.

“Don’t ever do that again,” you whispered, breath catching.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love.” He said it easily, but his grip on your back tightened in response.

When you pulled back, Ghost was standing on the other side of the bed. Stiff. His eyes flicked to you briefly, then back to Johnny. Awkward.

“Glad you’re not dead,” you said, trying to find your footing again. You didn’t mean for your voice to shake slightly. 

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “You alright?”

You nodded too fast.

Ghost shifted his weight slightly. Said nothing.

The air in the room felt thick.

You stepped back. Gave them space. You didn't belong with them anymore, you could feel it in the undercurrent, pushing you towards the door.

That’s when you saw it and paused—Johnny’s hand in Ghost’s. His thumb moved in slow, absent circles over the back of Ghost’s knuckles, like it was second nature. Unthinking. An unconscious action. “We’ve been together. For a while.” The words echoed in your mind, each syllable landing like a weight in your chest. It felt like someone had injected ice water straight into your veins. A reminder. A cruel one. That you hadn’t mattered—not really. Just something they’d tried on for size and quietly discarded.

It took longer than it should have to register that Johnny was saying something. But when the words finally registered, you were almost grateful for the anger that flared up to wash away the hurt left behind.

“Captured?” you blurted, smacking his shoulder with an open palm. “Why didn’t you lead with that, you idiot!”

“Hey! I’m fine—just a private regiment who didn’t realise who I was. Tied me to a chair, roughed me up a little. Honestly, could’ve been worse. Bit of a holiday, really.”

You hit him again. You didn’t know what else to do with the flood of emotion crashing against your ribs. Relief. Anger. That ache in your chest made worse by the hulking presence opposite you, the one who still wouldn’t meet your eyes.

Before you could say more, the medic returned, shooing both you and Ghost out to run more tests.

Now, you were outside in the hall.

The door clicked shut and the silence tightened, like a vice around your throat. Every word you wanted to say jammed in your chest.

A pause. 

“I’m gonna wait here,” Ghost muttered, not looking at you, arms folded across his chest, “You should go update Price.”

“Update him on what?” It came out sharper than you intended—but you didn’t care. You knew what Ghost was doing. He was trying to get rid of you.

He didn’t respond. Just stared harder at the floor.

“So we’re just pretending that didn’t happen?” you asked, arms crossed, your voice a fragile shield against the way your heart stung.

Ghost didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look at you at all.

He scratched at his glove instead, then said, low and even, “We were both hurting. Missed Johnny. Needed something to hold onto. That’s all it was.”

You swallowed around the lump rising in your throat. “So we’re still friends?” You couldn’t lose him entirely because of some stupid night spent together. 

A beat passed. “Course.”

It felt like a lie.

But you nodded anyway. “Good.”

And that was that.

You tried to move on like nothing had changed, but the ache remained—an invisible bruise you couldn’t stop pressing.

Johnny bounced back to form fast. All wide grins and stupid jokes, his presence like sunlight—loud and warm and blinding if you looked too close. But even he couldn’t miss the shift in the air.

Conversations between the three of you that had once felt as easy as breathing were suddenly stunted, Johnny feeling like some kind of glue trying to hold you all together.

Ghost was once again quiet around you, like you were the new guy on the team again, only this time you weren’t trying to peel back his layers and worm your way inside.

But.

You’d decided to stop touching them. Both of them. It felt wrong--like you were encouraging a relationship you had clearly opted out of.

No more friendly shoulder nudges, no collapsing into Soap’s side on the couch after a long op. No leaning against Ghost in quiet moments, sharing space when speaking had become too much for either of you.

You kept your hands to yourself. Played it safe.

Tried to.

Even if it meant bleeding quietly where nobody could see.

Weeks passed.

You took to sparring more often.

It was the only place you could touch without feeling too much. Here, it was allowed. Controlled. Clean. Rules to follow.

But today felt… different.

You didn’t pull your punches. Neither did Ghost.

The mat slapped beneath your feet as you moved, fast and brutal. You ducked under his swing, landed a palm against his chest—but he didn’t back off. He came harder. No banter. No guiding corrections.

Just teeth, grit and unspoken fury.

Johnny leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching with narrowed eyes.

When Ghost landed a solid hit to your hips that made you stumble, you retaliated with a hard sweep that knocked him flat.

Johnny stepped forward. “Alright, alright. No need to fight to the death.”

You backed up, chest heaving, sweat prickling down your spine. Ghost said nothing. Just rolled his shoulders and walked off the mat.

“You want next?” you asked Johnny, trying to cover the sting of the moment with a grin.

But Ghost cut in, voice low. “That’s enough. You’re tired.”

You weren’t.

You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to be left alone with your thoughts again.

“I think Soap can make that decision for himself, no?” You raised an antagonising brow at the Scot.

Johnny narrowed his eyes. “Don’t even think about it. You’re getting sloppy. You’ll injure yourself.”

Ghost walked away.

You weren’t sloppy. Anger rose. Hot. Needing an outlet.

When Johnny turned away, you stepped in close—jabbed him just under the ribs. Fast. Sharp.

He grunted, staggering back. “What the hell!”

You dropped your stance, jaw tight. “Come on. Thought you said I was getting sloppy. Still landed that one easy.”

He stared, anger flashing behind his eyes. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.” Your threw your fist towards his face, him narrowly dodging the jab.

Johnny’s voice lowered, jaw set. “Don’t antagonise me, lass.”

You squared off again. And he came at you like a storm.

You grappled to the floor, matching each move, lock for lock, grin for grin. This was fine. This was safe. A game with rules. Touch that didn’t mean anything.

Until it didn’t.

You slipped.

He didn’t have time to pull the hit.

His fist landed painfully against your ribs, knocking the breath from your lungs and your legs from under you.

You hit the mat hard.

Johnny was on you instantly, concern twisting his features. “Shit—I’m sorry. That was too much—”

“No. Don’t apologise.” You scrambled upright, already backing away. “It’s my fault. Forgot you had a mean right hook.”

His hands reached out again, checking you, fingers brushing your side. Your breath hitched.

“What’re you doing?”

“Making sure you didn’t break a rib.” He lifted your shirt and began the process of checking each rib, pushing to see if any felt worryingly sore. You tried to grit your teeth and get through it. Your head began to buzz. It had been so long since you’d had someone touch like this--softly. You were holding your breath, knowing Johnnys cologne would invade your senses as soon as you breathed in. 

He was too close. 

You stepped out of his reach. Too much. Too close. Too intimate.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly.

He let out a hesitant laugh, masking uncertainty. “Go get it checked, yeah? Don’t want Price on my arse for injuring his favourite sharpshooter.”

You almost made it to the door before you saw him.

Ghost. Leaning there. Watching. Mask unreadable.

He followed you out.

“You trying to punish Johnny now?” he asked, voice low. Like a knife dragged slowly along your spine.

You froze, whipped your head around to him. “What?”

“I saw it.” He stepped closer. “You’re angry. I get it. But don’t take it out on him.”

“I’m not—” You stopped. How could you explain?

That you were lonely. That you ached. That you craved the comfort of their touch but felt like you'd been burned for ever wanting it. Without sounding as desperate as you felt, that is. 

When you didn’t answer, Ghost exhaled sharply. “Right.”

“Can’t you just accept that I wasn’t trying to hurt him without needing a damn explanation?”

He grabbed your arm, pulling you into him so he could peer into your eyes, "No, I can't."

You scoffed, "There you go again with the 'I can’t’, you can't what, Simon." 

You weren’t even making sense to yourself. Felt irrationally angry at him. 

"Oh, there you two are." Johnny rounded the corner and you wrenched your arm from Ghosts grip. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, just bugging me about going to the medic." You glanced at Johhny, turning on your heel to get away from them. You needed space from them, permanently.

“Simon?” Johnny’s voice was quiet.

He was staring at Ghost, who hadn’t blinked.  Eyes fixed on the hallway you’d disappeared down. Expression unreadable—except to Johnny.

“Simon, what did you do?”

Ghost flinched, just a little. “I didn’t—” he stammered, glancing away. “Nothing.”

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “Ah-ah, no. Something’s off. You’ve got that kicked-puppy look you only get when you’ve properly fucked up.”

Ghost tried to shrug it off, but Johnny stepped in front of him, hands gentle as they took his arms.

“Look at me.”

Simon’s gaze met his reluctantly.

Johnny’s voice softened. “Tell me.”

Ghost hesitated, then said quietly, “We kissed.”

Shock and confusion warred on Johnnys face, “What—just now?”

“No,” Ghost muttered. “When you were gone.”

“Ok…” Johnny’s brows furrowed. “She didn’t like it?”

Ghost looked like he wanted the floor to open beneath him. “Thats not it, at least I think she liked it.”

“You think she liked it?”

“She kissed me back,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “But she stopped it before anything else happened.”

Johnny waited, silent, patient. Not letting it go.

Simon finally exhaled a shaky breath.

“I kind of pulled away the morning after,” he admitted, “And before you start—I was scared, alright? I’d just spent four days thinking you were dead. I was barely holding it together. Then she was there. In her bed. In my arms. And it felt like if I let myself have that… I could barely survive anything happening to you let alone her aswell.”

Johnny didn’t speak at first. Just pulled him into a slow, one-armed hug and began walking with him down the corridor.

“So, you’re not mad?” Simons voice was small as he asked what he’d been terrified of finding out the answer to.

“You are such an idiot.”

Simon let out a disbelieving scoff. “How am I the idiot?”

Johnny snorted. 

They walked on, shoulders brushing.

It was going to be a long night.

But maybe, finally, Simon was ready to talk.

Perhaps too late to change your plan.

You started sitting at a different table during meals. Switched your gym schedule. Made yourself invisible, unless it was mission time.

Johnny noticed first-catching you in hallways with bad jokes and warm smiles that didn't reach you anymore.

Ghost kept his distance, even after his talk with Johnny, still unsure on how to approach the situation.

You had made your mind up.

You stopped calling them by their names.

A barrier.

It was hard at first. A few missed nicknames, a couple moments where "Johnny" slipped past your lips before you caught yourself, corrected it. But eventually, it stuck.

They noticed.

The first time you did it on base, Soap froze mid-sentence. You'd handed him a debrief file, avoided his touch when he reached for it, and simply said, "Let me know if Command wants an update, Soap."

He blinked at you, smile faltering like you'd slapped him across the face.

He didn't say anything then. Just took the file, nodded slowly, and walked off quieter than usual.

Ghost didn't react at all when you did it to him, he was expecting it. He took it with that same mask-on, walls-back-up silence. Just a stiff nod. Professional.

They tried to pull you back in at first.

Soap started with the little things—inside jokes, dumb banter, lingering near your desk when he didn’t need to be there. You laughed once. Weakly. But you didn’t meet his eyes.

Eventually, he stopped trying to be funny. Just watched you instead, quiet and confused.

Ghost didn’t try humour.

He tried persistence. 

He started showing up again—shoulder to shoulder with you during drills, hovering just behind you at the firing range. But he never crossed the line. Never spoke first. Never touched. Just waited for you, just in case.

There were benefits.

In the field, you were untouchable—precise, calculated. No room for mistakes. You issued commands with a voice stripped of warmth.

“Soap, cover left. Ghost, clear the stairwell. I’ll breach.”

Not Johnny, with me or Simon, watch my six.

You didn’t even flinch when they called you out on it.

“You always this cold, Snipe?” Soap asked one day after a long couple days in the field. “Or you saving all the warmth for someone else now?”

You didn’t look at him. Just checked the ammo count on your rifle.

“You done?” you said coolly.

He scoffed under his breath, but didn’t push.

Ghost said nothing.

He just stared at you a beat too long, like he was trying to decode something that wasn’t there anymore.

You were a well-oiled machine now. The person on and off duty had blended into one. If you began to feel that familiar pang of loneliness, you simply took yourself to the gym and ran until all you could think about was your breath, all you could feel was the pain in your legs. No room for anything else.

Maybe they thought it was a phase.

Maybe they were waiting for you to come back.

But you weren’t sure if you could.

Because if you let yourself soften again—it wouldn’t be pretty.

So you called them by their callsigns.

And every time, it felt like drawing a line you knew they wouldn’t cross.

It all came to a head when you were prepped for your next mission. The briefing room was quiet, heavy with the kind of tension that settled deep in the walls and didn't leave.

Price stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, projecting calm authority. Ghost loomed beside him, unreadable as ever behind the mask. You sat opposite them, back straight, eyes sharp on the folder in your hand.

And Johnny—Soap—was beside you.

You didn’t look at him.

“High-value target,” Price said, nodding to the satellite imagery spread out across the table. “Intel confirms he’s on-site for another 48 hours max. After that, he’s ghostin’.”

Your gaze traced the structure outlined on the photo. Guard rotation, possible entry points, extraction windows.

“I’ll go in,” you said, before anyone else could speak. “Alone.”

Price’s brows lifted. “That’s not the op. You and Soap were slated to infiltrate together.”

You didn’t flinch. “I’ll go in solo. Quicker, quieter. No point risking two lives when you can just risk the one.”

A pause filled the room—cold and sharp.

Soap turned toward you slowly. “What the hell are you on about?”

“Just logic,” you said flatly, not looking at him. “One person has a better chance of slipping through. Less noise. Less chance of being caught. I can handle it.”

“You don’t get to make that call,” Johnny said, voice low, his usual warmth gone. “You’re not going in alone.”

“No point in both of us dying.”

His voice hardened. “You’re. Not. Going. In. Alone.”

You shrugged, eyes still on the intel, refusing to meet his. “It's not your choice to make.”

“Enough,” Price said, tone sharp now. “No one’s dying. And no one’s going in alone—”

“I’ll go with her,” Ghost interrupted suddenly, his voice a smooth, flat line of steel. “Unless you're gonna tell me I’m not allowed?”

You frowned, he had you cornered and he knew it. Then, slowly, Price looked between you, Soap, and Ghost—his gaze sharp.

“Alright fine.” He paused. “But I want a word with Ghost before we move forward. You two—wait outside.”

Soap opened his mouth to protest but shut it again when he caught Ghost’s look—something dark and silent passing between them.

“Fine,” Soap muttered, standing. His chair scraped the floor as he left. You followed, already turning—

“No,” Ghost said, eyes locked on you. “Not you.”

Your step faltered.

Price raised an eyebrow. “Simon?”

“Need a minute alone,” Ghost said simply, “Won’t be long.”

Price studied him for a beat, then nodded slowly. “Five minutes.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, the silence turned thick. Pressing.

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t look at him.

Ghost took a step toward you. “What the hell’s going on with you?”

You crossed your arms. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped, and the sudden edge in his voice made your chest tighten. “You shut us both out. Won’t look at Johnny. Barely speak unless it’s call signs or orders. And now you’re offering yourself up like some lamb to slaughter?”

You turned away. “It’s just the better strategy. Stop reading into it.”

“Stop it.”

You bristled, but his voice was too steady. Too calm. Like he wasn’t just angry—he was hurting.

“You think if you pull away hard enough, it’ll stop the fallout?” he continued. “You think freezing us out’ll protect you?”

You didn’t answer.

“We kissed,” he said, quieter now. “You let me in. And now I don’t even get my name?”

You flinched, but still didn’t meet his eyes.

“You’re not the only one who’s scared,” he added. “But you don’t get to act like we don’t care just because it hurts too much.”

Finally, you looked at him—properly, allowing yourself to take him in for a moment like you used to.

Your voice cracked. “You don’t get to say that. Not after you left that morning like none of it mattered and reacted to me like I was a devil on your shoulder for weeks after.”

His eyes flickered. “It did matter. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that, I know. But I didn’t know how to explain what was going through my head.”

“And what was there to explain, Simon?” you said, bitterness leaking into your voice. “That I was a mistake you wanted to forget?”

He took a step closer, eyes sharp, but not unkind. “No. It wasn’t a mistake. If you just let me—.”

You shook your head. “It’s easier this way. The why doesn’t matter anymore.”

He closed the last bit of distance, gently taking your wrist. “But it does matter.”

You stared at his hand on yours.

He waited. Breath steady. Not pushing.

You felt the first crack like a gunshot through your chest. Felt the fractures expand from there. The feelings you’d locked up rushing out the gaps made by him.

“I just can’t keep feeling like an extra piece, you know? Like I’m only needed when someone’s missing. And when they’re not—” You shook your head. You were tired. Frayed at the edges. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be around you, but this.”

His hand gripped you tighter, as if trying to hold you here—not let you drift away again, “We just want you back. In any form.”

The door opened before you could say more—Price stepping back in, brows raised.

Ghost released your hand slowly, eyes hardening again—you didn’t notice how much they’d softened.

Price looked between you both, then nodded once. “Good. Get ready. Wheels up in two hours.”

You brushed past Price on your way out, your chest still tight—but now, under the wreckage of everything you were trying not to feel… a flicker of something else.

A feeling you had gotten so used to pushing down.

This time you let it linger a little longer.

“We just want you back.”

Next part here

[subliminalghoest]

NSFW

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x f!reader (18+, smut)

So I keep seeing the idea of Simon using his balaclava to basically gag himself when he’s having fun alone time and thought it would be hilarious for reader to accidentally interrupt him.

~Enjoy.

You aren’t supposed to be walking down the corridor towards Simon’s room, but after nearly snapping at a rookie in the range, you figured it was either vent or commit murder. You opted for venting.

You knock once—sharp, impatient.

No answer.

You knock again, this time louder, “Riley, you alive in there?”

There’s a thud, a very faint shit, and a few shuffled footsteps before the door swings open. Simon appears in the doorway, breathless, eyes slightly wide. And — your brain stutters — his face is bare. No balaclava.

You blink. “Wow. A rare sighting of the man himself. Can I get my camera?”

He gives you a flat look, like he’s weighing up closing the door on you and pretending this never happened. “What do you want?”

“Well, don’t sound too enthusiastic.” You shoulder past him and step into the room. “I needed to talk—well, vent.”

He closes the door with a sigh and mutters something about boundaries, but doesn’t stop you.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” you begin, pacing as you talk. “You know that new rookie? The one with the smug face and the haircut that screams ‘I’m an asshole’? He tried to explain recoil management to me. Me. As if I wasn’t there to teach him.”

Simon leans against the wall, arms crossed, breathing slowly evening out. He’s listening, but he also seems… distracted. And warm. His cheeks still hold a pink tinge that’s not from embarrassment. You glance at him, narrowing your eyes.

“You alright? You look… flushed.”

“Just warm in here,” he says quickly.

You look around the room. It’s not warm. It’s military-issue cold and sterile.

You plop down on his bed with a huff and grab the first thing your hand lands on, his balaclava. You start fiddling with it absentmindedly as you continue ranting. Running your fingers around its edges, smoothing out the ruffled fabric.

“So then he says, ‘You’re just overreacting because you’re a girl and I gave you a correction.’ And I swear to god, I nearly choked him with my shoelaces.”

Simon lets out a low sound, something like a half-snort, half-growl. “He still in one piece or do I need to head down there and stage a little accident?”

“I’ve got it covered. But thanks for the offer.”

As you speak, your fingers twist through the fabric. But something catches your attention. Your brow furrows. “Why’s this… damp?”

You lift the balaclava higher, peering at the wet patches. “Are these teeth marks?”

Simon stiffens.

You look at him. He looks at you.

His mouth opens. Closes.

And then—blush creeps up like a slow burn from his neck to his ears.

“Oh my god,” you say, blinking. “Simon.”

He clears his throat.

“It’s not—”He rubs a hand over his face, which only makes his ears redder. “It’s not what you think.”

You stare at the balaclava in your hands, then at him, then back again.

“Oh no. It’s exactly what I think,” you say, holding the evidence like it might start screaming confessions. “You used this to shut yourself up while you were—God, Simon!”

“I wasn’t expecting company!”

You both fall into stunned silence. You glance down again at the balaclava. Then back up at him. Your grin stretches slow and wicked.

"I'll leave," you stood slowly backing up to the door, voice all mock-sweet. “Let you... finish.”

You’re laughing as he snatches the balaclava out of your hand, his ears flaming.

As you got to the door, you paused. A thought strikes and before you linger on it too long—“Who were you thinking about?”

He goes very still.

Then you turn, voice teasing, eyes fixed on him. “Anybody special?”

His jaw ticks once. Then again. You swear you can see him calculating the odds—whether honesty is worth the gamble.

But you don’t give him the chance.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, a dramatic grin tugging at your lips. You step back into the room, arms folding. “It was me, wasn’t it?”

He says nothing, glare intensifying.

“Oh this is too good—which fantasy is your favourite?” You don’t wait for his response, “Is it me all sweaty and stinking from the gym?”

He steps closer to you. You step back.

“Or was it that time I came back from that recon op, covered head to toe in mud and God knows what else? Because that,” you gesture up and down your body, “was peak seduction, obviously.”

Simon exhales a short breath like he’s trying not to laugh—or trying to not strangle you. You don’t stop.

He steps forward again. You step back, softly hitting the door behind you.

“Or—wait—was it when I had the flu and couldn’t stop sneezing and had tissues stuffed up my nose? Yeah. Super sexy. Real fantasy material.”

You go to make another jab, but he finally speaks—and the calm, gravelly tone of it slams into you like a punch.

“Yeah,” Simon says. “So what if it was you?”

Your mouth opens—and then you freeze. That’s not the answer you were ready for.

“It’s always you,” he adds, stepping forward, hands bracing against the door on either side of your head, “Doesn’t matter if you’re sweaty, or dirty, or pissed off enough to break someone’s jaw.”

You blink, reboot your brain. You shove him lightly in the chest, half-laughing. “Shut up. I’m the funny one, remember?”

He doesn’t budge.

A smirk tugs at his lips—not cocky, not cruel. Confident.

“You gonna keep teasing me now?” he murmurs, voice like gravel and sin. Head tilting to the side, mockingly.

Your throat is dry. “I mean… probably not.”

His eyes flicker around your face, you can hear your heartbeat in your head.

You drag in a breath, “You want me?”

“That depends,” he says. “You gonna keep running that mouth, or you want me to put it to better use?”

That definitely short-circuits your brain.

“Jesus Christ.” you whisper, voice a little too breathless, a little too eager.

“Only name you’ll be praising tonight is mine, sweetheart.”

Later, when you’re stripped bare on his bed, legs trembling, his mouth on your pussy like he’s starving, you try to muffle the moans clawing their way out of your throat.

Simon lifts his head, lips glistening. “Mmm—what’s wrong? You struggling to keep quiet?”

You let out a broken noise—and he grabs the balaclava, the same one from earlier, and presses it into your hand.

You don’t hesitate.

You shove it between your teeth, biting down, back arching as he flattens his tongue and devours you.

“Much as I’d like to hear all those pretty little noises,”Simon smirks against you, clearly satisfied, and licks another stripe up your clit—slow, deliberate—before sucking it into his mouth. “I’m not willing to share. Especially not the sounds of me making you come.”

And the way you whimper around that fabric?

It’s better than anything he’d imagined.

Your back arches. He groans softly at the way your hips buck, hands gripping your thighs tighter to pin you in place.

“Yeah,” he breathes, lips brushing your slick skin. “Just like that.”

Your hands fly to his hair—short and messy from your earlier interruption—but you don’t pull him away. You anchor yourself, like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You’ve no idea,” he murmurs, fingers sliding down to join his mouth, “how long I’ve wanted to do this. You, like this—open and so needy and all mine.”

A low, desperate sound catches in your throat, muffled by fabric.

His fingers slide inside you—two at once—and your eyes roll back. He curls them just right, searching for that spongy area to make you shake. His tongue keeps working in tandem, relentless and steady, mouth slick and warm.

You’re close. It’s spiraling fast, too fast.

Simon knows it, too.

“C’mon, love,” he mutters, the words pressing against your skin. “Be good for me. Come on my tongue.”

That’s all it takes. You break apart with a cry smothered by his balaclava, thighs clamping around his head, body shaking with release.

He doesn’t stop.

Keeps going through it, coaxing every last aftershock out of you, until you’re squirming, twitching—pushing at his shoulder with your feet.

Finally, finally, he pulls back—licks his lips slowly like he’s savouring every second of you on his tongue. He leans up over you, arms caging you in, watching with dark, hungry eyes as you pant, flushed and wrecked beneath him.

Your hand shakily lowers the balaclava from your mouth, and your voice comes out hoarse. “You’re a menace.”

He smirks, dragging the fabric from your hand and tossing it aside. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

You scowl at him half-heartedly. “I didn’t.”

He leans down, nose brushing yours. “Good.”

Then he kisses you—deep and messy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue—and you moan, arms looping around his neck before you can think better of it.

When he finally pulls away, breathless, he smiles. A rare one. Soft, but no less intense.

“You’re not getting the last word tonight,” he says, voice thick with promise.

You lift your brows. “No?”

He shakes his head, trailing kisses along your jaw, your throat, the curve of your shoulder.

“I’m just getting started.”

Your breath hitches at the low, dangerous way he says it. I’m just getting started.

“Yeah?” you manage, voice barely above a whisper. “Planning to ruin me, Lieutenant?”

That smirk comes back—sharper now. Almost wicked.

“Oh, I’m not planning,” he murmurs, fingers trailing down your side, dragging goosebumps in their wake. “I’m going to.”

He slides lower, mouth returning to your skin—not frantic, not rushed, but with purpose. Reverent. His stubble grazes your sensitive flesh, and you flinch, still overstimulated and burning for more.

You can’t believe he’s going down again.

Your hands find his shoulders, nails pressing into muscle as he hooks your knees over his broad shoulders again, spreading you wide beneath him. You’re already slick, flushed, raw—too sensitive to take much more. You feel like the only thing that exists in the world when Simon Riley is between your legs.

“Need to get you prepped for me, doll. Gotta get this pretty little cunt,” he says softly, breath hot as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, “soaking wet for me.”

You moan, head tipping back against the pillows. You never thought his mouth would be this dirty—half expected the stoic, silent Lieutenant he is in public.

“And the way you fucking taste…” He groans, low and wrecked, like he’s the one falling apart.

You feel the press of his tongue again—slower this time, but no less consuming. He laps at you with long, deliberate strokes, occasionally dragging his teeth just barely where you’re most sensitive, making you gasp.

One of his hands slides up your belly, splaying against your chest. His thumb brushes over your nipple and you arch into him with a broken whimper.

“Sensitive,” he hums against your folds. “You gonna come again for me?”

You nod helplessly, words gone—wrecked by the overwhelming heat and sensation. He chuckles darkly and closes his mouth around your clit again, sucking gently.

You don’t stand a chance.

Your second orgasm crashes into you, your back bowing, thighs shaking around his head. It’s slower than the first, but deeper—like it’s being pulled from the base of your spine, curling through your entire body. You sob his name into your palm, clinging to his shoulders like you might fly apart without him.

And still, he doesn’t let up. He works you through it, tongue and fingers moving in tandem, until your legs twitch and you let out a half-laugh, half-whimper.

“Simon, fuck, I—please—”

You push his body away with your foot, he sits back on his knees, gliding his hand up and down your calf, lips slick with your release, eyes dark and feral as he takes you in. Perfectly dishevelled.

“Too much?” he teases, his voice rougher now, tinged with something almost smug. “Or just enough?”

You glare at him through your lashes. “I hate you.”

His grin widens as he pushes your leg out of the way and crawls back over you, nudges your jaw with his nose. “That’s not what your cunt says.”

He’s filthy. You groan, dragging him down by the back of his neck into a kiss—deep, messy, a little desperate.

“You gonna fuck me or just keep teasing me to death?” you breathe against his lips.

He laughs—low, throaty.

“Oh, I’m gonna fuck you,” he promises. “Nice and slow.”

He reaches down between you, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds, just enough to make your breath catch again.

“But not until you beg for it.”

Your body jerks at the glide of his cock against your aching core—warm, heavy, teasing. A fresh wave of heat pools low in your stomach, and you tighten your grip on his shoulders, nails digging in with a whimper you barely catch behind clenched teeth.

“Beg?” you echo, breathless.

Simon hums, nose brushing your cheek, voice like gravel and smoke.

“You heard me.”

He presses the tip just barely into you—then he pulls back, slow and deliberate.

Your eyes flutter shut. He does it again.

“C’mon, love,” he says, mouth grazing your ear now. “You were so full of clever little comments before. Where’d all that mouth go?”

You glare up at him, flustered and trembling, every nerve ending alight. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins, unfazed. “And you’re soaked. Dripping, even.”

Another teasing thrust—shallow, maddening. Your body aches, clenches around nothing, desperate for friction, for fullness, for him.

You huff out a frustrated sound, forehead resting against his chest. “Simon—”

“Ah-ah.” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “You want my cock, you ask for it.”

You decide to give in.

You lift your chin, lips brushing his as you whisper, “Please, Simon.”

He doesn’t move.

You swallow, cheeks burning. “Please fuck me. I need it.”

That dark heat in his eyes flares. “Say it again.”

You moan in frustration, squirming beneath him. “Simon, please. I need your cock. I need you to fuck me—now.”

That does it.

His control snaps like a wire under tension, and he surges forward, burying himself inside you in one long, delicious thrust. You cry out—the stretch making your back arch as he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” he grits through clenched teeth, head dropping to your shoulder. “Christ—you’re so tight. Fuck, I know I’m big, baby. You can take it. I know you can. Show me how good you can be f’me.”

Your hands claw at his back as he starts to move, slow at first, then harder, deeper. Each thrust steals breath from your lungs, pushes moans past your lips without thought.

He groans into your neck, biting down gently before pulling back to look at you—flushed, panting, completely undone.

“You like this?” he growls, fucking into you harder. “Me inside you, filling you up?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, eyes rolling back as he angles his hips just right and hits that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision go white.

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit. “One more,” he says roughly. “Give me one more. I want to feel you come on my cock.”

You’re close—so close—and his words tip you right over the edge.

You fall apart with a sob of his name, walls clenching around him as your climax hits like a tidal wave. He groans deep in his chest, slamming into you once, twice more before he spills inside you with a shuddering gasp.

The room goes quiet except for the sound of your ragged breathing and his heartbeat pounding against your chest.

After a moment, he lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. His voice, when it comes, is quieter. Rough in a different way.

“You alright?”

You nod, a little dazed. “More than alright.”

He kisses you then—slow and soft, a stark contrast to everything that came before it.

You whisper into his lips, “Am I better than your imagination?”

[subliminalghoest]

Hi again!!! I was the one who asked if you would be comfortable doing a 💨🍃 fic!

Here’s my idea if you’re ok with it:

So the reader (female) is a friend/ex team member and the team consider her a very close friend and whenever they finish a mission they have a tradition of going to the readers house and just distressing by watching movies or playing board games or something!

And they know that the reader is a stoner/🍃💨 and maybe this time the mission was really tough/stressful so maybe the ask the reader if they can 💨🍃 with her? (Maybe they don’t usually smoke with her but don’t mind her smoking around them) and then funny/fluffy shenanigans ensues!

Maybe all their stoic behaviour goes out the window and maybe they all end up in fits of giggles over stupid things (like accidentally dropping something) or one of the team members is all like ‘guys….have you ever noticed how walls actually have textures?’ 🤣

Just basically a crack fic Ngl but I feel like it could be a really cute and funny read!! If you’re comfortable with it ofc 💕💕

(Ngl I just really want to see the team become super goofy and just relax and have fun!)

I hope you don’t mind the small edits I made to this but this felt more my style—hope you like it!

—————————————————————————

The team had a difficult mission.

You’re curled up on your couch, lighter in hand and a spliff between your fingers, half-watching a movie and half-listening to the familiar sound of boots and groaning muscles as the team finally arrives.

Price walks in first, dropping his kit bag with a thunk, followed closely by Ghost, Soap, and Gaz, each looking a little more wrecked than usual. You know the mission must've been hell if even Ghost looks dishevelled.

“Rough one?” you ask, taking a slow drag and exhaling toward the window you had cracked open.

Soap flops onto the nearest beanbag like he’s just finished a marathon. “You’ve no bloody idea.”

Price nods towards your leg, “Rehab not going well?”

“What makes you ask that?” You raise your eyebrow at him.

His brows furrow, “Thought that stuff was for the pain?” He gestures to the spliff smoking between your fingers.

You grin, inhaling again. “I’m beginning to think it has far better uses than just pain management.”

Ghost eyes the blunt in your hand like he usually does—with detached amusement and mild judgment. “You’d think a former soldier would be more careful about dulling her reflexes.”

“I’m off-duty,” you reply sweetly, offering the blunt to him. “Want to join me this time? You all look like you could use it.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Gaz huffs out a laugh. “Actually... maybe.”

Three heads turn to him, surprised.

“Mate, really?” Soap asks, grinning.

Gaz shrugs. “Look, I’m tired, I’m sore, I nearly got blown up twice today, and she always seems like she’s having the time of her life doing it. I just wanna feel my shoulders melt for once.”

Soap leans back, eyeing the blunt in your hand again. “Y’know what? I’m in. Been a while since I touched the stuff.”

Price lets out a long, suffering sigh. “Don’t drag me into this.”

“You’re already here, Cap,” you sing, holding it out to him like a peace offering.

Soap grins. “C’mon, mate. For the team. For the vibes.”

He stares at it for a beat, then mutters, “Bloody hell,” and plucks it from your fingers.

“Ok, if we’re doing this—you guys aren’t smoking it.” You stand, still slightly off balance with the new leg. Ghosts hand is an inch away from your back, he has a habit of always being there in case you need it.

“What?! But you just let Price smoke!” Gaz is giving you puppy dog eyes.

“Oh, hush, for starters he smokes cigs regularly so won’t spend the majority of the time choking on it and secondly, if you chill for just a second, I’ll explain that I have some special brownies in the cupboard that I think you’d prefer.” You raise your eyebrow at both Soap and Gaz who abruptly slump back into their seats like naughty schoolboys.

“I’ll help.” Ghost follows you into the kitchen, your head already in the cupboard wrestling out the brownie container.

You pull a second joint from behind your ear and you lean against the counter as you spark it up, watching Simon plate up the brownies. “You gonna join us tonight, Lt.?”

“Only if we’re watching Hot Fuzz again.”

You cackle, passing the joint to him and watching with a grin as he takes a long drag, blowing the smoke in your face as he passes you, going back into the living room with the brownies.

Once you’ve gathered a couple more snacks, aka all of the ones you had in the house, you join them—starting the movie and settling in.

Thirty Minutes Later...

Soap is laughing so hard he’s crying. He dropped a single tortilla chip on the floor and apparently it looks like… something. You’re not quite sure but giggle along anyway.

Gaz is lying on your rug staring at the ceiling. “Hey. Guys. Has anyone ever really looked at the ceiling? Like... everything in this room fits on it. Doesn’t seem big enough. It’s wild.”

“I think you just broke my brain.” Price is reclined in your armchair with a blanket over his legs like a pensioner and a bag of gummy bears in his lap. “I should be very concerned about this,” he mumbles, chewing slowly. “But also, these are the best gummy bears I’ve ever had in my life.”

Ghost hadn’t spoken in a while. He’s sitting cross-legged on the couch next to you, watching the TV with terrifying focus.

You lean toward him. “Everything alright?”

He nods, then, dead serious, says, “I’ve solved time travel.”

You choke on your drink. “I’m sorry—what?”

He turns to you, grinning like he’s slightly dazed, “Wait—what did I say?”

He looks adorably confused.

You blink.

Then the laughter takes over, and suddenly everyone is howling.

Soap falls off the bean bag. Gaz starts wheezing. Price just mutters something about the Queen’s army and dignity before breaking down with the rest of you.

Later, you’re all bundled up in pillows and spare blankets, surrounded by snack wrappers and empty cups. Cosy. The movie’s long over, old episodes of Takeshi’s Castle playing on mute. Your chill out playlist filling the silence. No one’s moved in half an hour.

“What does it feel like losing a leg?” Ghosts question takes you by surprise. You’d never really gone into the details of your injury, the team already feeling guilty about having been on the mission when you were injured.

“It’s strange—kind of like a tattoo I keep forgetting I have, or rather don’t have.” You chuckle slightly, “why’d you ask?”

“Can’t feel my leg.”

You giggle as you push him back on the sofa, subsequently releasing the leg he had tucked under himself, “You’re sat on it, dumbass”

He laughs with you as he settles back on the sofa, legs settling on top your yours as he gets comfortable.

Soap pipes up softly, almost dreamily: “We should do this after every mission.”

Ghost, of all people, nods solemnly. “Agreed.”

Price groans. “You’re all insufferable.”

You reach out from your cocoon of blankets to offer him another gummy bear. “You love us.”

He takes it, grumbling. But he doesn’t deny it.

[subliminalghoest]

Ok so the next part of Safe house is getting real long.

Do people hate really long parts and would prefer it split into more parts or are you happy happy to receive an 8 course meal equivalent of an update?

[subliminalghoest]

latest chapter of your safehouse fic has me screaming 'just fucking talk to each other'. christ like his "I can't."??? in my mind that's so clearly an 'i can't get close to you like I've gotten close to Johnny already bc almost loosing him all but broke me and i can't imagine having to feel that way about two people.' but nobody's saying what they mean and now everybody feels like shit. feel free to tell me if I'm completely off base here but that's how it read to me and I'm gnawing at the bars of my enclosure thinking about them.

~J

Literally me trying to write these dumb fucks characters blindly battling their way through feelings and communicating like they’re a bunch of 4 year olds…

I’m totally fine.

[subliminalghoest]

I almost regret reading part 3 bc OUCH THAT HURTS BABES but it’s only an almost bc I am an addict and it’s amazing and also gd the writing is so good like okay idk if this makes sense but ghost obvi flipped a switch and it was so sudden but also your writing was so smooth?? Like I think that’s such a hard scene type to write bc it can jolt the reader out of the scene but nope yours was just fluid all the way through and it hurt all the more and I can’t wait for part 4 and 5 and whatever else you grace us with

🥹

[subliminalghoest]

Hiya!

I was wondering what your hard no’s are for your fics? Like what you won’t write about?

I just have an idea for a funny but cute 💨🍃 fic with the whole team and the reader!!! But I understand if you’re not comfortable or interested! :)

Hey:) my thoughts are that you can ask whatever you like—if I feel comfortable writing it, and that I could do it well, then I’ll respond and if not I’ll just leave it. No harm no foul you know 🤷🏼‍♀️

[subliminalghoest]

Sooo your safe house fics 👀👀 will there be any scenes in the next ones where the reader maybe completely distances herself from both Simon and Johnny?

Like calling them Ghost/Soap or hardly talking to them? It would be so funny if Johnny has had enough and just goes ‘Simon what did you do?’ 😅 maybe he’s even like ‘you guys only kissed?? You should have fucked wth, I literally gave you the perfect chance Simon’

I’m so sorry if this is rude in anyway! I’m not at all trying to tell you how to write your fics! I just thought it could be a way to help add to the ✨angst and drama of it all✨

I hope you’re doing well!! And please please please keep up the AMAZING work!!! It’s sooooooo goooooooood wth 😫

✨Omg—literally get out of my brain!✨

You’re in no way being rude tho—definitely where my mind had already gone to continue the story, just with a couple differences.

But I do love the idea of having Johnny having a go at Simon omg that would be hilarious—don’t sue me if I end up including it in a future part.

[subliminalghoest]

Hi so not to sound completely insane but I’m a whore for safe house, it’s only part two and I think it’s my new comfort fic thank you ily I can’t wait for the next part (this is a no pressure ask, do as you pls with what you do or don’t write and I will appreciate it all the same :))

If anybody is insane—it’s me. But oh my gush thank you it’s so nice to get this kind of feedback eeek!

The next part is here btw 😘

[subliminalghoest]

Safe house 3

Ghoap x f!reader (read part one & two)

-the third instalment is hereeee

-Warning: Slow-burn, fluff, we getting real angsty with this part (you've been warned)

———————————————————————————

You didn't believe it—not really. But there it was in the scope. A perfect shot.

“Bloody hell,” Price said behind you, voice low with something between disbelief and pride. “That’s 1,750 metres. New team record.”

He clapped a hand on your shoulder. “What’s the reward, then, Lieutenant?”

All eyes flicked to Ghost. He was still looking through the spotting scope, unmoving. Like he needed to double-check that what just happened... actually happened.

It took a second before he spoke, like the words had to boot up. “…Bragging rights.”

It’s a tradition in the team that they never hand out literal awards for new records and such, only the bragging rights over the rest of the team. Nobody wanted trophies turning into reminders of those who didn't make it home.

You rose, still in quiet disbelief, and each member clasped you on the shoulder, offering their kudos—Soap practically lifting you off the floor in excitement, “Christ, I’m never hearin’ the end of it, am I?” he chortled as you helped him up.

You shoved his shoulder. Grinned. “Only fair.”

“Hell of a shot.” You blinked at Ghost quietly packing up the equipment, “You really are as impressive as your file said.”

Your cheeks heated, Simon had never really spoken to you out of choice—only ever orders or corrections during training. You were still relatively new to the team, still figuring out your place with them, and Ghost... Ghost was a fortress. But hey, the harder they are to break, the sweeter the victory.

You smirked, mock saluting. “Just getting started, Lt.”

A deep chuckle escaped him as the finished with the gear, straightening up and confirming that, yes, you still were unaccustomed to his sheer size.

“You are already solid. Don't waste your time proving yourself,” he hesitated “…and call me Simon.”

You didn't know this at the time, but you would grow to become one of the three people with the privilege of seeing the man under the mask.

Back then, it was all about bragging rights. Now... it felt ridiculous to care for something so insignificant.

This was the kind of record nobody celebrated—other than grim understanding of what it meant.

This was the longest anybody had been comms silent and came back to claim their title.

Soap was still out there.

His mission had been a solo recon assist—a quick in-and-out, they said. You and Ghost weren’t on the roster, just supposed to wait it out, keep things running here. But now it was 4 days later—no update. You weren’t on the mission, but your head replayed every worst-case scenario like you were living them anyway.

Your heart thudded heavy in your chest. You stared harder at the screen. Like maybe you could force your thoughts away if you glared long enough.

“Staring isn't gonna bring him back any faster.” Price startled you from your spot curled up in a chair in the tech room, which you had spent more time in than out of the last 4 days.

Rubbing your sore eyes you straightened yourself, “It’s my shift, Captain.”

Confusion crossed his face before he glanced above your head and saw Ghost entering the room, the same dark purple marking his eyes as yours.

“I’m not having two of my best dragging arse if we get the call.” Price pointedly looked between the both of you, “Off the clock means off. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“But we—” a sharp glare in your direction cuts off your objection. Price was your Captain, his word was the law to you, no loopholes.

You gathered the rubbish on the desk from your snacks and began to leave, noticing Ghost had left without waiting for you or uttering a single word—strange.

Sleep evaded you into the early hours of the morning, the base silent around you. Too quiet. Without Soap here it felt like your world axis had been shifted and there was a gap that wouldn't fill until he returned. He would return, he had to. Claim his record title and brag your ear off about it far into the future.

The ceiling began moving as your eyes unfocused from staring at it too hard, pressing your palm into the sockets to try and alleviate the sting.

Then—

A knock.

You sat up instantly, heart leaping into your throat. For one impossible second, you thought it might be Johnny. Back, smiling like always, grinning through dirt and blood.

“I’d like to see you last 4 days in the wilderness with no comms, fucking majestic I was—wish you could've seen it, eh?”

But the knock came again—slower. Heavier.

Not Soap.

“…Yeah?” you called, already getting up knowing who it would most likely be.

You cracked the door open, and Ghost’s hulking figure filled the space.

He lingered in the doorway, half-lit by the hallway light. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

You blinked at him. “You okay?”

He stepped inside and shut the door softly behind him. He looked more tired than usual. Heavy. Not in a physical way, but in the way he carried the silence around him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Didn’t want to sit in my head all night.”

You nodded and motioned to the bed. “Sit. I’m up anyway.”

He sat down without a word, elbows braced on his knees. You stood in front of him, waiting.

Ghost wasn’t one to spill his thoughts easily. But he looked up at you now, his voice raw in a way you rarely heard.

“I keep thinkin’ the worst,” he admitted. “Every time the comms go dark like this, I wonder if I’ve already seen him for the last time.”

Your breath caught. You hadn’t let yourself say that out loud. Not yet. But Ghost’s voice cracked something open in you. Tore off the bandage you’d put up.

“He’s smart,” you said, gently. “He’s been in tighter spots than this.”

“I know.” He paused. “Still... it’s different when it’s someone you—” He cut himself off. Looked away.

You blinked. Love, thats what he was gonna say—not in the brother in arms, die for eachtoher way. They lovedeachhother.

Still, you kept your voice soft. Steady. “That’s why you’re scared,” you said. “You love him.”

Ghost didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the floor between his boots. Then—barely audible—“Yeah.”

A silence settled over you both, you didn't know how to respond. Already too emotionally raw from the past few days to fully fill in the gaps of what this meant in your head. You didn't need to though, Ghost continued, “We’ve been together. For a while.”

A while.

Oh.

You nodded slowly, but it felt like something inside you had been suddenly carved out.

You thought the safehouse night had been the start of something. Some messy, fragile maybe. But this?

They’d already had their beginning. And maybe an entire middle, too. And you... you’d just been a brief detour.

Your stomach twisted.

You moved closer, just slightly, and let your fingers brush over his shoulder. “He’ll come back,” you murmured. “To you.”

Ghost lifted his head at that. His eyes were unreadable behind the mask, but he reached out—slowly—and caught your wrist. Gently pulled you forward until you were standing between his knees.

Then his arms went around you, and he tugged you into a hug—tight, grounding.

You stiffened for a split second, then let yourself melt into it. Even with your heart aching, you didn’t pull away.

He needed comfort. And despite everything, you wanted to give it to him.

You stayed like that for a long moment. Your cheek pressed to the top of his head, his hands curled around your waist. His breath steady against your stomach. You let your fingers run gently through his hair where his mask didn’t cover it.

The moment stretched on as you held each other, bordering on the kind of intimacy you had been working so hard to forget.

Finally, he shifted, tilting his head up. “Can I stay?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. You couldn’t resist sliding your palm against his cheek, your heart squeezing slightly when he leaned his head into your palm and smiled softly. He looked so beautiful in that moment, it almost hurt to look at him.

He peeled away with a kiss to your palm, pulled away and climbed into bed. Your bed. You joined him, keeping to the edge at first, unsure. Your back to him.

But then his hand found your hip.

He hesitated. You could feel it in the way he held his breath.

Then he gently tugged.

You let him. Took what was given.

His arm came around your waist. His body curved against your back. Cocooning you in a warmth which quieted your mind.

Peaceful.

He pressed his face into your hair, and you could feel the tremble in his chest. Like even now, even after everything, he was still coming undone.

You let yourself be held.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just the quiet sound of breathing in the dark.

Then Ghost said, voice dry, “You remember the safehouse?”

You let out a soft sound, half-laugh. “Kinda hard to forget, Simon.”

“Hm.” He nudged your temple with his nose, “Didn’t take you for a cuddler back then.”

“I’m not,” you muttered. “That was survival. You two were warm. That’s all.”

“Right,” he said, clearly unconvinced.

You tilted your head back enough to look at him. “You started it, anyway.”

“Hmm, don’t blame me—Soap was the one practically drooling on your neck.” he added, almost fondly.

You laughed, and he chuckled low behind you. It warmed something inside you that had gone cold earlier.

But then he shifted again, and his fingers traced the curve of your neck—your breath hitched. “Don’t regret it, though. Best night sleep I’ve had in years.”

He remained there for a moment, testing your reaction to his hand tracing patterns on your neck. Cataloguing each hitch or stutter to your breath—how your legs softly shifted when he found a sensitive spot behind your ear.

He moved his hand higher, gripping your chin and tilted your head toward him slowly. Gently.

Your body shifted to face his, settling against each other just as easily as you had in that safe house.

Ghost stared at you like he was waiting for you to pull away first—like he was giving you the chance to take it back.

You didn’t.

You leaned in, just enough, and his eyes shuttered closed.

When his lips met yours, it was soft. Fragile. A question, not a demand. You answered with the same quiet need, sinking into him, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

He kissed you like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want this—but couldn’t stop himself anyway.

It deepened, gradually. Mouths pressing firmer, breaths quickening. His hands tightened at your waist, fingers twitching with restraint.

You could feel the rough fabric of his mask brushing your lips. A barrier stopping you from feeling him fully.

And then, without thinking, you reached up—gripped the edges—and pulled.

He stilled, just for a moment. But he didn’t stop you.

You peeled the mask off and tossed it to the side—didn’t care where it landed. You wanted him.

And he gave in.

The kiss broke for half a breath—just long enough to see his eyes, wide and searching—and then your mouths crashed together again.

No restraint now.

Your hands buried in his hair, his tongue sweeping against yours, slow and warm and desperate. He groaned into your mouth, raw and wrecked, and the sound shattered something in you, sent heat pooling in your core.

You didn’t hold back.

You let yourself get lost in it—chests pressed, bodies tangled, breath stuttering between kisses that bled together. Hands grasping at your hips pulling you further into him, feeling the need for you against your core. Twisting, his body now half on top of you as he pushed you deeper into the mattress. There was no precision. No careful rhythm. Just aching mouths and shaking hands and raw, quiet desperation.

You kissed like you were the only thing keeping each other grounded.

You kissed like it meant everything.

And maybe… maybe for a moment, it did.

But then—reality.

You felt it before you thought it. A crackle of guilt. A flash of doubt.

Reality crashed in.

You pulled back.

Not all at once. Just an inch. Then another.

Ghost chased you for a second, eyes still closed, lips parted—until he felt the absence and opened his eyes.

Hurt flickered across his face, subtle but unmistakable. His hands didn’t let go, but they loosened, unsure. Shifting back so he was no longer laid on top of you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, breathless. Touching your fingers to your swollen, sensitive lips. Feeling to make sure that had just happened, but also maybe a barrier to stop it from continuing, “I shouldn’t have…”

He shook his head, voice rough. “No. Don’t be. I shouldn’t have—”

“Let’s just not, okay?” You rested your hands against his chest, smiling softly to reassure him.

He didn’t press further. Just rested his forehead against yours.

“Okay,” he murmured.

He lay back, pulling you with him until your head rested on his chest. One arm stayed firm around you, hand rubbing slow circles against your spine.

You curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

Neither of you spoke again.

Eventually, your breathing synced.

Tonight, you were just two people lost in the quiet, holding on to what comfort and warmth you could find while your friend was gone.

The morning came slow.

Sunlight leaked in through the blinds, painting thin golden lines across the sheets. The room was quiet—still wrapped in that rare hush that only came after long, heavy nights.

You stirred first.

For a second, you didn’t know where you were. A solid wall infront of you giving you no clues as your brain struggled to wake itself up. Then you felt the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest against your back, the steady breath brushing the back of your neck.

Ghost.

Your heart kicked up again—but not with panic, not quite. It was a soft ache. Bittersweet.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

He was still asleep. You could tell by the way his fingers twitched now and then against your stomach, relaxed in a way he rarely let himself be. His face—half buried against your shoulder—was bare still. His mask lay abandoned somewhere on the floor, like it hadn’t mattered last night. He’d let you see him when the rest of the world couldn’t.

You didn’t know what this was. What it meant. But you knew what it had felt like.

You settled further into his arms, carefully threading your fingers through his resting in your stomach, bringing his hand up to the centre of your chest. Letting yourself enjoy it. Just for a little longer. You weren’t ready for the world outside this bed. Not yet.

But reality never waited long.

Ghost’s phone buzzed.

The sound was sharp—too loud in the stillness.

You felt him jolt slightly behind you, his breath catching. Then the arm around you tightened reflexively before pulling away altogether.

You watched him move in silence.

He rolled over, reached for his phone. Pulling you with him with his other arm, tucking you in firmly against his side. A short kiss pressed into your hairline, sweet, soft, a side of Simon you hadn’t experienced before but seemed so natural to him you wondered if this is what he would be like, waking up with him every morning, the thought felt dangerous.

Screen glow lit up his face. You saw the moment it happened—the second everything changed.

The message on the screen must’ve hit him like a shot to the chest.

“Johnny’s back,” he said, voice flat. Distant.

Your heart surged. Relief swept through you fast, hard—but it was eclipsed almost instantly by the shift in him.

“That’s good,” you managed, voice low. You sat up slowly, the sheet wrapped tight around your chest. “He okay?”

He sat up fast. Swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Started grabbing his things, pulling on his boots, his hoodie, reaching for the mask. “I assume so. Just got a general update. I’ll check on him.”

He didn’t look at you.

You ran your fingers through your hair, trying to shake the quiet, the stillness that had turned suffocating.

“So…” you tried, a bit too casually. “You heading straight over?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

Nothing more.

“Simon—” you started.

He just kept moving like the night hadn’t happened. Like the warmth you’d shared was some illusion.

You sat up straighter, sheet clutched to your chest. “Ghost.”

That finally got a pause out of him.

Half-dressed, mask still in his hand, he stood at the foot of the bed, back still to you.

“I shouldn’t have come last night,” he said. Quiet. Measured.

You flinched like he’d hit you.

No mention of the way you’d kissed him. No acknowledgment of the way he’d held you like he might fall apart if he let go. No sign of the soft, raw version of Simon that had laid beside you in the dark.

You bit your lip. Swallowed hard.

He looked over his shoulder—just barely. His eyes were unreadable again, that wall going up inch by inch. The wall you thought he’d let you behind for a moment.

Then he turned away. Pulled the mask back on.

The man who’d kissed you like he was drowning was gone. Replaced with the Ghost the world always saw. Cold. Sharp. Untouchable.

He reached for the door and suddenly you couldn’t let him leave like this. You knew once he left you would never build the courage to ask him what this meant. Would never know.

“Wait,” you said, voice cracking. “So that’s it? We just…” You didn’t know how to finish the sentence and the weight of it hung heavy in the air.

He hesitated—hand on the doorknob. The silence stretched.

Then, finally, “I can’t.”

And he left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

You sat there for a long time.

The room still smelled like him. The sheets still held the imprint of his body. But he was gone. You were alone.

Your throat burned.

You dragged the blanket off, beginning to recollect yourself—get ready to face the day, whatever state Soap had been found in.

And deep down, you weren’t sure which cut deeper—the fear of finding Johnny…or the certainty you’d already lost Simon.

You let the quiet crush you.

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