Simon catches you in the middle of the night in the empty lounge pilfering a couple protein bars from the cabinets.
He walks over to you on quiet feet. He greets you silently with his big warm hand on your lower back, slowly dragging it up the length of your spine and back down again. You've noticed he kind of pets you like a cat sometimes. And like a cat, you lean into his warmth, looking over your shoulder at him with a smile.
"Hey," you say.
"Hey," he echoes. "Heard you're being sent out."
"Yeah, quick grab-n-go. Need to corroborate some intel for Laswell."
"Wanted to catch you before you left." His hand slides off of you. The call had come in at some godforsaken hour of the night, waking you up with mission details. You had intended to shoot Simon a text before you took off but it seems like word already got to him somehow.
"You're just in time, I was just finishing up here." You pocket the protein bars.
"Good. I'll see you when you get backloveyou." And then he's gone.
By the time you whip your head over to him, all you catch is a glimpse of his back disappearing around the door frame. You rush over, your legs working on autopilot, stumbling into the hallway but he's already gone.
Did he just? No, he absolutely did. It may have been an awkward mumble under his breath, but he absolutely did.
It replays in your mind, his voice curling around the syllables.
Love you.
Hell, but you love him too. Even when he leaves you grinning like an idiot all alone in the hallway with protein bars melting in your pockets.
Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!
And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.
ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.
ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE
when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.
you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.
your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.
you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.
one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.
you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.
one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.
the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.
he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.
“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.
the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.
well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.
you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.
apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.
simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.
“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.
“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.
the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.
you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.
the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?
“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”
“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”
“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.
“points to you.”
“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.
he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.
“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.
you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.
“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.
“or should we take off another?”
you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”
“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.
“ghost!”
it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.
“what, mactavish? im busy.”
“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.
the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).
“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.
“it’s fucking shepard.”
it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.
you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.
“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.
you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.
you pass out.
when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.
“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.
your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.
the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.
your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.
“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.
you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.
“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.
“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.
“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”
he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.
he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.
just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.
“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.
you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.
“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.
“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”
“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.
“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.
“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.
“and whose fault is that?”
the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.
“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.
you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.
simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.
your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.
“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.
“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.
the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.
“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.
spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.
john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.
when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.
the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.
there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.
it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.
your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.
when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.
“how’re you feeling?”
you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.
“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”
the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.
the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.
“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.
no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.
you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—
you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.
that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.
your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.
————————————————
authors note:
I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.
thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶
The forehead touches started after hard missions- when you're both sweaty and stinking of gunpowder and blood- if you're lucky, not your own- Ghost tugs you close and taps his forehead to yours, goggles clanking, a fast tap that is gone quicker than you can react to it.
He keeps doing it, like a ritual, after he's counted heads and confirmed his squad is back home all together, you get a tug and a tap.
You start inviting it, too. Taking off your goggles and helmet when he approaches, tilting your chin up so he has to step into your space. It takes a moment longer, the touch lingering just a bit, impossible to see unless you're right inside it.
When you peel away your head wrap after one mission and find a split down your forehead, too small for stitches but too big to ignore, Ghost tugs you over to a bench, takes out a first aid kit, and calmly places the butterfly bandages in a line from hair to eyebrow. He holds your chin in his hand when he's done, eyes dark and unreadable under his paint and mask, and moves your chin down-
-and you hold your breath as he places a soft kiss on your forehead instead, lips gentle under the plate of his mask, his breath warm on your chilled skin.
"....be more careful, next time," he rumbles, so close you can feel his lips moving, and leaves you there with a pounding heart and flushed cheeks. He doesn't say anything else to you, just moves everyone out and back to base- but you catch him, stripping off his gloves, tired and worn down with everyone sent to their beds.
He's got scrapes on his knuckles the gloves didn't catch, and you lift his hand to your mouth, holding his gaze as you press your lips to his fingers, as gentle as he was, breathing warm over his skin.
"You be careful, too," you murmur, and catch his wrist, his throat, his cheek as he lifts the mask and finally gives you a proper kiss.
[Y/N]: *Checks their personal phone* Ugh, another message from my folks.
Soap: Wot? Family trouble, sarge?
[Y/N]: No. They’re sending me profiles of potential candidates to marry. Reviewing them and what not.
Gaz: An arranged marriage?
[Y/N]: I know how it sounds, but it’s just dating profiles. Four of my siblings already found and married their mates. My parents, especially my mom, is worried if I’m having trouble with my personal life.
Price: Well, tell them you’re busy saving lives everyday.
[Y/N]: I already told them that. My mom said, “Still, find a partner who you can connect with.” Wish I can fake one to relieve their stress.
Soap: *Looks over at Ghost and directs back to [Y/N]*
[Y/N]: *Followed his direction* Are you for real? He’s our lieutenant.
Price: You two are chummy together lately.
[Y/N]: Because we settled any possible issues.
Soap: You play wit’ each other in your shifted forms durin’ down time.
[Y/N]: More like training together.
Gaz: And shared a sheep carcass at the canteen.
[Y/N]: Okay, I see what you mean. Except, I can’t ask Ghost to be my fake boyfriend. He’s L.T., pretty inappropriate outside of work.
Gaz: I guess the wolf and snow leopard rivalry is another concern.
[Y/N]: Not really. We kind of resolved that a while back. Call it a truce for the time being. My folks are fine with any of us dating outside of our group.
Soap: Wot are ya waitin’ for? Ask him.
[Y/N]: *Sighs* I owe him big time after this.
[Later]
[Y/N]: *Knocks at Ghost’s office door*
“Come in.”
[Y/N]: *Enters in his office* Evening, lieutenant.
Ghost: This about your family’s meddlin’?
[Y/N]: You overheard from earlier. I’m trying to get a fake partner to calm my family down.
Ghost: …
[Y/N]: Soap told me you would be the best option since they saw us as “inseparable”.
Ghost: …
[Y/N]: So, this is inappropriate coming from a teammate. Would you be my fake partner the next time we’re on leave and visit my family?
Ghost: …Alrigh’.
[Y/N]: *Stunned* Really? I mean, thank you for filling in this “upcoming operation”. I owe you big time.
[Next Time, on leave.]
[Toronto, Canada]
[Y/N]: Now, remember. This is their first time meeting you, so they’ll start “interrogating” you and about our relationship.
Ghost: I’ll handle it. Remember our cover story?
[Y/N]: I do. Like any briefing. *Buzzes the doorbell*
[The front door opens, two older snow leopard hybrids greeting them.]
[Y/N]: Mama! Papa!
Mama: My little cub! *Hugs them and rubs her head on theirs*
[Y/N]: *Greets her the same*
[Both chuff while Papa stares at Ghost.]
Papa: Who is this you brought over?
[Y/N]: Oh, he’s my boyfriend, “Henry Hughes”.
Papa: Ah, Henry. *Offers a handshake* Been a long time since any of our grown children brought a partner home.
Ghost: *Carefully shakes his hand* Pleasure meeting you.
Mama: Come in, come in. You two must be freezing outside.
[Everyone heads inside the house. [Y/N] and their mom brought out tea for everyone to the living room.]
Papa: Henry, what do you do for work?
Ghost: Work as a butcher back in England.
Papa: *Nods* Sounds like decent work.
[Y/N]: Papa.
Mama: Aaah, England. The first time [Y/N] told us they’re moving out there for work, we were scared for their safety.
Papa: Especially involving military.
[Y/N]: I’m okay. Still in one piece and met the most handsome man during my stay.
Papa: How did you two meet?
Ghost: Met when [Y/N] came to the shop for some cuts. They tried to chat up while waitin’ for their order.
[Y/N]: I came to his store so often during leave that we eventually connected.
Mama: Aw, that’s lovely. Just out of curiosity and mean no harm, what kind of hybrid are you?
Ghost: Gray Wolf.
Mama: Oh, gray wolf.
Papa: A wolf?
[Y/N]: Papa…
Mama: No more negative energy here. As long as our precious little cub is happy.
Ghost: *Wraps his arm around their shoulders* No need to worry too much.
[Y/N]: *Blushes by the unexpected gesture*
[After visiting has finished and left the house.]
Ghost: “Henry Hughes”?
[Y/N]: You’re supposed to be dead and can’t compromise your existence outside of base.
Ghost: Hm. Your folks seem nice. Especially your mom.
[Y/N]: She is. Sorry about my dad. He still has some animosity towards wolves and hybrids alike. My mom is disciplining him for that.
Ghost: Sounds like she’s workin’ on that.
[Y/N]: Yeah…About what happened back there. You slung your arm around my shoulders. You’re really good at acting for a fake boyfriend. Guess it comes with the job during ops.
Ghost: “You have no idea.”
[Y/N]: Since I owe you big time, I’ll tour you around Toronto. Getting some Timmies, visiting stores, stopping at my favorite spots. Oh! Definitely getting you some fried Beaver tails.
Ghost: *Stares at them* …
[Y/N]: They’re not made of actual tail. It’s fried dough covered in sugar and other toppings.
Ghost: *Faces closer to their face*
[Y/N]: *Getting flustered* Simon…
Ghost: *His covered nose gently touches theirs* Would like that. *Pulls back and walks ahead*
[Y/N]: *Blushes in embarrassment* That’s so unprofessional! *Chases behind his tail*
it'd all started not even an hour ago, after you'd all touched down on base again from the last mission. exhaustion weighed down your bones, dark circles rimmed your eyes. now was the time for a hot cup of tea, a kiss on the forehead, and a very long nap.
"aye, y'alright?" your boyfriend asks, his eyes filled with a loving sort of knowing concern. he gets it, gets the weariness you're experiencing.
you barely have the chance to shake your head no when he notices your pouted lips, the downturn of your face. a big arm swoops behind your back, pulling you to him.
somehow you missed the way he locked the door behind him as you stumbled in for something you can’t even remember anymore.
“lemme help ya,” he says, his lips dragging open-mouthed, burning kisses up your neck, your jaw.
his arms draw tighter around your waist, grounding you, anchoring you. in turn, you intertwine your fingers into the crop of hair at the nape of his neck. playing it cool, you tug, much to his delight and subsequent pleasure: his hips rut into yours, cock already hardening underneath his fatigues.
“there ya are, girl.”
just like clockwork, his attention has you flustered. heat crawls up your neck as surely as his eyes read hungry.
it’s an undeniable fact of your relationship, since before its inception—the two of you just cannot get enough of each other.
before you know it, johnny’s bullying a thumb against your clit as he rubs himself hard, eyes glued to the slick gathering at your entrance.
the cheap, worn leather of the common room couch squeaks behind your back as you tense up, thighs spasming.
“johnny, ‘m gonna—,” the words fall from your lips like melting honey, warm, your voice thick. your boyfriend watches the way you clench, pussy flutting around nothing, ready to fix that for you.
“i kno’, love,” he replies, spitting from above you, the glob landing on your cunt. two fingers quickly follow, pushing their way inside of you as you shudder, shaking at the way he curls them against your sweet spot.
johnny’s face grows hot as he watches you come apart around him, just like it always does. it feels unreal, the way it’s so picture perfect every time.
if the two of you were back in the barracks, in bed, he’d be letting you, making you ride out your orgasm, giving you two more. but today he’s too impatient. today, he’s fucking you on the shared couch.
barely biting back a moan, your eyes flutter shut as he bottoms out. the pleasure’s like a warm cup of tea on a cold night, sinking into your bones as it settles into you. the sheer girth of your boyfriend’s cock used to make you nervous, the lead up to sex filled with clammy hands and reminders to breathe deeply from johnny. now? you were more than used to it, and you reckon both him and the way he uses it has ruined sex for you permanently.
“jus’ wanna make ya feel better, lovely,” johnny groans, his cock seated fully inside of you.
you moan out, nodding nonsensically at everything he’s saying.
you know him well enough to know what he’s not saying: that he needs this too.
that he needs to wind down from the bleeding brutality of the last mission too. born to die as a soldier—but human nonetheless. not immune to anything, even if he acts like it.
“looked so gorgeous when y’were watchin’ my flank earlier, lass.”
you giggle, your nose crinkling as the sound bubbles from your throat.
“oh, yeah?” you challenge, eyes zeroed in on his.
“course. i‘d trust you w’me life.”
his sturdy hands press your legs to your chest, your thighs together as he kneels over you. it’s not enough, not deep enough, and he can read it in the way you mewl, the pleading in your eyes. johnny lifts a leg, planting his boot on the couch beside your head as he plunges himself deeper into you. somehow your leg’s ended up over his shoulder, the sting of your muscles nothing but delicious.
“there ya are.”
you can barely breathe. you wouldn’t have it any other way.
“j’needed tae be fucked righ’ n’ good,” your teammate murmurs, half to himself.
“my girl, so happy tae be b’neath me,” he trails off, snarling as you clench around him. “takin’ my cock so damn well, aren’t ya?”
nodding, you whimper, folded up like a contortionist as johnny’s balls slap against your ass with every thrust.
it’s unbearable, a thin layer of sweat coating your back as you lay there and take it, letting johnny fuck into you. the look in your eyes, heavy-lidded and sultry despite the surroundings, has him gritting his teeth as he fights not to come too early.
the angle is awkward, but the objective is achievable. with one hand, you grab johnny’s ass, nails biting at the plush skin. that alone would do it, you’re aware, but there’s a glint in your eye that he’s a little scared of as the other hand reaches down between your bodies and grabs at his balls.
it takes him by surprise, and you pulse around him as he comes inside of you, hard and hot.
“aye,” he rasps, face tight as he shudders above you, sweaty forehead falling into the crook of your neck. “tha’ was a,” he stops, panting, swallowing hard. “cheap trick.”
༄ first time writing for soap, what’d we think!?!? shoutout birthday girl for giving this a read, love u big time 🤍🤍
Summary: A tech expert lends her expertise to the 141 for a mission. It’s not her fault that she’s tall, beautiful, and perfect. But it is her fault that she can’t keep her goddamn hands to herself. How else are you supposed to react when you walk in to find her lips on your Ghost?
Warnings: allusions to cheating (not Ghost’s fault!! Sweet man has never done anything wrong in his life), swearing, angst (does it make it better if I promise all the fluff in the next chapter?)
A/N: Well this has been on my brain for a while. I’m so thrilled to finally have this out into the world! The OGs know that this was one of my first prompts I came up with when I was first writing for Simon Riley. I guess we’ve come full circle <3 Thank you for all your support. Remember, your comments, tags, and messages mean the world to us writers!
It’s surprising that the harsh grinding of your teeth isn’t audible given how hard you’re clenching your jaw. You watch in irritated silence as a tall curvy redhead named Bex leans over Ghost’s shoulder to peer down at the encrypted computer.
She’s always so fucking close to him, to your Ghost.
You steady your growing impatience by taking a swig of water, the thin plastic crinkling under your touch.
“Hmm.” She leans in closer and you could tell Ghost is on edge. He wasn’t exactly the sort who tolerated too many people encroaching on his personal space.
Clearly he makes an exception when it comes to gorgeous redheads though, you think to yourself before mentally chastising the thought.
The rational side of your brain knows that he’s more than likely just putting on a brave face because Bex is new to the team. Technically, you correct yourself, not an actual part of the team. She’s more like a short term contractor. Even you had to begrudgingly admit that the 141 needed her level of expertise to crack through the firewalls and get the intel needed to ensure success for the next part of your mission. After all, you risked your life getting the damn laptop. What good is it if you can’t even get into it?
You knew all of this. Logically. It made sense. Your team needed a military-grade computer expert. She was the most qualified for the job—the “best of the best” Price had said. Done. Fin.
Except…
Except you just couldn’t get over the way her eyes always seemed to linger on Ghost. The way she’d accidentally brush up against him as they walked side by side through the hallway. The way she laughed a little too loud at his terrible Army jokes. And right now, the way her hand rests on his shoulder as she studies the screen.
Your fist unconsciously clenches around your water bottle causing the ice cold water to gush over the loosened cap, spilling all over your lap.
You let out a shout, jumping to your feet as the cold water soaks through your layers. Bex jumps as well, surprised by the outburst, stepping back from the mess.
Simon is on his feet in a heartbeat.
“You okay?” But not even his deep baritone, usually instantly calming, could soothe your irritation, now at an all time high.
“I’m fine,” you snap, crossing the briefing room in strides to toss the empty bottle in the bin. Ghost watches you with careful eyes. Though his face is covered by his signature skull balaclava, you didn’t miss his appraising gaze as he tries to assess the situation—ever the tactician.
You take a deep breath. “I’m fine,” you try again, aiming for a more pleasant tone. “Really. Just a slip of the hand.”
“Well,” Bex scoffs, “You really should be more careful. We are dealing with electronics here, you know.” Her snarky tone has you nearly seeing red again, but you clench your jaw tight and plaster the friendliest smile you could muster, though you’re certain it must look more like a grimace.
“Noted,” you grit out before turning your attention back to Ghost. “I’m gonna head to the barracks and grab a shower. Catch you later?”
Ghost’s head bobs in a subtle nod, but his eyes are still looking at you with that quizzical expression on his face. He knows something is wrong.
You just subtly shake your head in response, doing your best to a convey a “not now. We’ll talk later” with just a glance. Turning back to the door, you leave the two of them behind to tackle the task at hand. The sooner you crack the encryption and figured out where your target is, the sooner Bex can get the fuck out of here.
Walking across the base, you pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers, internally scolding yourself for letting your temper get the best of you. The fresh, cool evening air helps calm your sour mood, and you do your best to reassure yourself.
I’m sure it’s nothing.
It’s all in your head.
He probably doesn’t even like redheads.
You’re so caught up in your thoughts you don’t even see where you were going, which is exactly how you find yourself running face first into the brick wall of Johnny.
Oomph. The air whooshes out of your lungs as two broad hands reach up to steady you.
“Easy there, lass,” the Scottsman chuckles. “Watch where yer goin’ bonnie.”
“Sorry Soap,” your cheeks feel warm with embarrassment. “Didn’t see you there. Lost in my own head.”
“I’ll say!” Johnny claps a hand on your shoulder, the other balancing a stack of folders. “Hey, while I have you here, have ye seen LT?”
“Yeah, he’s with Bex in the briefing room. They’re trying to tackle that computer we lifted from the last mission.”
Soap nods. “More power to her. That shite doesn’t make any fucking sense to me.”
“Yeah. She’s a real blessing to the team,” you grumble, unable to withhold your eye roll.
“There’s that fiery sergeant I love so much,” Soap teases. “Am I getting a whiff a jealousy, hen?”
“Don’t even get me started Soap or I swear to god—“
“Alright, alright,” Soap laughs good naturally, his free hand coming up in mock surrender. “But hey, would you mind dropping off these files to LT? He needs to review them before our meeting with Laswell in a couple hours and I’ve got to meet up with Price now, don’t have time to trek all the way to the briefing room.”
“Sure,” you do manage to hold back your sigh this time. “Happy to help.” And you are happy to help Soap—he’s a great friend to both you and Simon—you just aren’t too happy at the thought of seeing your new BFF Bex again so soon. At least the short walk had served its purpose in cooling your temper a bit.
“You’re a treat, bonnie, I owe you one,” Soap smiles, giving your shoulder a firm pat before taking off in the opposite direction towards price’s office.
You adjust the stack of sealed papers in your hands as your turned back around towards the briefing room and head across base.
You quick steps have you approaching the briefing room soon enough. Surprisingly, the door is left slightly ajar—you must not have shut it all the way when you stormed out of the room earlier, you reason.
You approach silently, softening your footsteps to avoid any kind of noise, a small voice in the back of your mind goading you to surreptitiously see how Bex might behave without an audience. You peer in the room to find Bex and Simon standing at the table, the computer screen lighting up in front of them.
“We’re in!” Bex exclaims, her voice high pitched with excitement.
You watch the scene unfold before you and it feels like the world is moving in slow motion. Bex turns her radiant expression up to face Simon, her hands moving upwards and tucking up under his balaclava, and then—in the blink of an eye—she raises it above his chin and presses a kiss to his lips. Simon’s hands reach up to grasp her wrists, already beginning to pull away, but it’s too late.
You see everything.
The papers fall to the floor with a crash, and both Simon and Bex jump apart, eyes flashing to the door.
Bex at least has the good sense to look embarrassed by her actions, her face flushing bright red, eyes cast to the ground.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Simon urges, pulling his mask back down in place. “Wait—“
You turn and walked out the door, the scene playing on a loop in your head.
Her lips. Pressed up against Simon. Your Simon. His lips…kissing her back? The memory already warps, tinged with shades of red matching the shades of anger running through you.
The rage fuels your steps as you run from the briefing room, desperate to get away.
Simon blinks at the empty space in the doorway, the space where you stood just a second ago, before this colossal shit storm descended.
“Well, sorry we got interrupted,” Bex’s sultry voice breaks the silence, her small hand reaching towards Ghost’s glove. “Should we continue where we left off?”
“Touch me again, and you lose the whole goddamn hand,” Simon’s hardened voice is laced with the threat of violence. “Keep your bloody hands to yourself.”
The blood drains from Bex’s face.
With that, he storms out the door, following your trail. One thought playing on repeat in his mind: I can’t lose her.
Ghost: What do you want for dinner, Y/N?
Reader: Your dick
Ghost:
Reader: *Your pick. Sorry, that damn auto correct
Ghost: Y/N, we're having a verbal conversation-
It wouldn't be the first time Simon made it difficult for you to walk the next day, but never quite like this.
Leg day found you in the gym on base. Squat racks and dead lifts, knee raises and lunges. You enter a flow state until it's just you and the heat building in your muscles.
You start to end off your gym session with the leg press machine, choosing something that you can sit down for before you finish for the day with stretches.
The sound of the weights rattling as you go through your sets acts like white noise. By the time you're done, your chest heaves and a good, deep burn settles in from your calves to your hips.
After your last one, you lean over to grab your water sitting on the floor next to you. As you take a swig you see the shape of a person walk up to the front of the machine. You don't have to look at them to know it's Simon.
"You're here late," he says. You wipe the sweat from your temple.
"Just finishing up." He looks you over and hums. You start to sit up, getting ready to take your feet from the board and put them on the ground.
Until he steps onto the weight bar.
"Show me what you got, sergeant."
All 6'4 nearly 300 pounds of him looms over you.
You're already exhausted just looking at him.
"Are you serious?"
"Deadly."
The skin around his eyes crinkle a little bit and you can tell he's smirking at you behind that mask.
"You piss me off sometimes, you know that?"
He snorts. "Yeah. What're you gonna do 'bout it?"
You plant your feet firmly on the kick board. The resistance is nearly outrageous and it makes your already taxed muscles burn like road rash. Not even halfway through and it feels like you're trying to uproot a brick building from its foundation. The breath is punched from you as you manage to lift both Simon and the weights already hooked on as far away from you as the machine allows. It takes everything in you to control his descent back.
"Tha's it," he purrs down at you.
It's always intense when Simon looks you in the eye, and now is no different. His chest rises with a deep breath as the look in his eyes sinks into the very core of you.
"Again."
You let out an exhausted laugh. "Yeah, right. You're out of your mind."
"You can take it. Come on."
The sight of him standing over you looking at you like that makes you forget the pain for a moment, just long enough to brace and push back once more. When your knees straighten, your entire body is shaking.
"Atta fuckin' girl," he barks out, pride roughing out the edges of his already gruff voice til you feel his growl in your own chest.
You slowly lower him back down, legs instantly numb when your muscles relax. You feel like you just lifted a damn humvee with nothing but your thighs.
"One more," he says, eyes two burning pits lasered down at you. The veins in his forearms bulge from how hard he grips the machine.
"Fuck no," is your knee-jerk reaction to that.
"Fuck yes. Now give me another."
You're not even sure you can flex your ankles right now let alone do another max leg press. "Si, I ca-"
"Yes, you bloody can. Do another one for me. Just one more, sweet girl, c'mon."
Oh, this bastard never plays fair.
You let out a groan that tell him exactly how you feel about the situation. He just chuckles at it.
Every movement is a battle, every muscle revolting against you. The exertion is so much that you barely feel the sound that it drags out of your throat.
"Up, up, up," he urges when you start to stall. "Almost there."
The burn is astronomical and your entire body trembles. Your knees feel like they're about to burst by the time you straighten them.
The return back is not controlled at all, the bar slamming back down into place rattles through the floor. You slump back in the seat. Your leg day just became an everything-and-more day.
Simon steps off and comes around the side of the leg press over to you. He kneels down, grabbing your water. He twists off the top before handing it to you. You have to grab it with both hands from how much you shake. He watches you take a little sip that you heavily breathe around.
His big paw of a hand lifts up to cup the back of your sweaty neck. He presses his forehead against yours, his eyes an inferno.
