he came out the mask for them?
Task Force 141 x Reader (Ghost's Partner)
Summary: Ghost invites the team over to meet his partner. They expect grim. They get a goth haven and a soft, shirtless Simon and suddenly nothing makes sense anymore.
(long so under keep reading)
Group Chat: “The Lads”
Ghost:
come over
tonight
drinks and dinner at mine
time you met my partner
Soap:
wait what partner??
Gaz:
you’ve been dating someone????
Price:
this is a trap isn’t it
Ghost:
no trap
just show up
you’ll get it when you see
___
You open the front door to the sound of the team’s muffled surprise. Their footsteps fill your hallway as they step inside the apartment — yours, all yours — every corner drenched in deep, dark velvets, flickering candlelight, and subtle gold accents. A haven wrapped in shadows with the scent of sandalwood hanging thick.
You’re calm but sharp: locs loosely tied back, ink curling over your arms, rings catching the candlelight on your fingers, and gold jewelry glinting just so. Black clothes, effortless, a resting bitch face that tells people “don’t mess with me” but eyes that betray your warmth. You smile at them warmly and walk back towards Simon.
From the living room they can see Simon is already there. No mask. No armor. Just him, in soft grey sweatpants, chest bare, muscles relaxed and unguarded. His dimples flash when he smiles, that easy, teasing smile reserved just for you.
He’s leaning back against the couch, fingers lazily tracing patterns over your hand — and you’re perched on his lap, slipping seamlessly into that easy domestic intimacy.
Soap, Gaz, and Price stand frozen at the entrance, blinking in disbelief.
Simon looks up and grins wide. “About time you guys met them.” His voice is low and confident, that quiet authority that never needed a mask.
You catch his eye, and your lips twitch into a smile as he shifts, fingers briefly slipping beneath your shirt, tracing the curve of your ribs.
“So, yeah,” Simon says, eyes glinting as he leans closer, “they own the place. I just crash here.”
The team’s eyes dart everywhere. Soap can’t stop staring at the gold rings circling your fingers. Gaz’s mouth is slightly open, clearly distracted by Simon’s bare chest and the way his sweatpants hang low. Price clears his throat but his gaze is shamelessly fixed on the subtle bulge Simon’s hand is shielding.
“So you’re saying…” Soap finally blurts, voice cracking a little, “this is... home?”
Simon smirks. “Yeah. Home.” He presses a kiss to your temple, voice dropping just low enough for the team to hear. “And nobody’s keeping secrets.”
You grin, leaning into his touch. “Not anymore.”
___
Dinner is loud and warm.
Pizza boxes scattered across the coffee table, mismatched glasses of wine and whiskey, stories tossed back and forth like old songs. You pass a bottle to Soap with an arched brow and he blushes just trying to take it from your tattooed hand.
Simon keeps close, casually possessive — a hand resting on your thigh, or your waist, or tugging at your shirt just enough to remind everyone exactly where you belong.
At one point, you say something sharp and funny and Simon laughs — full and unguarded. His dimples show again, deep and rare.
Gaz damn near drops his drink. “Wait—you have dimples?!”
Simon shrugs like it’s nothing, but he’s watching them closely now.
“The no mask really fucked with you lot, huh?” he says, voice low and teasing, mouth curved in that slow, knowing way.
Soap stammers, completely undone. Gaz’s eyes flicker between Simon and you, caught off guard by how open and real Simon is without the usual armor.
Price clears his throat, trying to look composed but failing miserably.
Simon’s grin deepens. “Didn’t think it’d have this effect, but hey—guess I’m just full of surprises.”
You nudge his leg with yours under the table, and he gives your knee a squeeze.
___
Later, when the guys drift into the kitchen for another round, you and Simon stay behind in the living room.
His arm slides tighter around you, his fingers drifting beneath your shirt, slow and warm. His other hand rests on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin.
“Kiss me,” you murmur, voice hushed.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The kiss is molten. Lazy at first, like a stretch after a long nap. Then it deepens, sharpens. His tongue slides against yours, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. One hand cups the side of your face, the other gripping your waist, your shirt riding up as he pulls you even closer. When you part, your lips are swollen, eyes glassy, and Simon’s grinning—dimples deep, mouth still chasing yours like he’s not done yet.
“Missed you,” he breathes against your cheek.
Before you can answer, you hear them—bootsteps approaching, half-muted voices.
You barely have time to shift before the team walks back in.
They freeze.
Johnny’s holding a bottle of whiskey and a set of tumblers. He drops one.
Gaz walks into the back of him with a low oof, and Price just… blinks.
Simon’s hand is still under your shirt. You’re still in his lap, his lips still kiss-wet, and your face reads pure satisfaction.
“Everything alright?” Simon drawls, completely unbothered.
Soap’s voice is way too high. “Y-Yeah! Yeah, all good, we—uh, just… wow.”
Gaz’s eyes dart between you and Simon’s hand, his gaze lingering on Simon’s chest, his abs, the lazy sprawl of his legs in those grey sweatpants. His lips part like he wants to say something but he’s forgotten how words work.
Price, to his credit, recovers quickest. “We interrupt something?”
Simon just tilts his head, mouth curving. “A little.”
He shifts, sitting upright—and the movement makes it worse. The sweats stretch. Muscles flex. You swear Soap whines under his breath.
Then Simon glances at them, slow and considering. “That was a welcome home for me,” he says, voice smooth. “So…”
He looks directly at Johnny. “Who’s next?”
Soap goes red. Gaz actually chokes.
Simon raises an eyebrow, not quite smirking, but close. “You lot always this flustered, or am I special?”
Gaz, flustered: “You’re—fit.”
Soap, absolutely unable to stop himself: “D’you always look like that under the gear? ‘Cause fuck.”
Simon just leans back, hand still resting on your thigh. “I’m off duty, Johnny. You nervous?”
“Oh, I’m—” Soap clears his throat and shifts, very visibly. “Not nervous. Just tryin’ not to do something stupid.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” you say, lips quirking, eyes on Gaz.
Gaz makes a sound that might be a laugh or a moan. It’s unclear.
Price sits down with a low sigh, clearly exhausted by everyone’s thirst. “Bloody hell, it’s gonna be a long night.”
Simon, deadpan: “Hope so.”
You grin widely and the team? They’re utterly doomed.