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The first time you meet them, you understand why John worries.

Not because they’re dangerous. Not really.

But because they look like men who have never had anyone waiting for them to come home.

The base smells like oil, gun cleaner, and something metallic that lingers in the back of your throat. It’s loud in the way military places always are.. boots against concrete, radios crackling, distant laughter that feels more like tension bleeding out than real amusement.

You walk beside John, your hand tucked into the crook of his arm.

He’s broad and solid beside you, a presence more than a man sometimes. The other soldiers straighten slightly when he passes. Some salute. Some nod.

Most of them stare at you.

Not rudely. Just… curious.

John warned you.

“They’ll stare, love. Not every day the captain brings his wife around”

You squeeze his arm slightly.

He squeezes your hand back.

You’re younger than him—everyone notices that immediately. Softer around the edges than the people who live here. Your sweater is a warm cream color, sleeves slightly too long over your hands. You’d braided your hair this morning because you were nervous.

John had kissed the top of your head and told you there was nothing to be nervous about.

But the truth is, you always are.

Not because of the soldiers.

Because of the quiet ache that lives in your chest.

The doctor’s office had smelled like antiseptic and cheap coffee when they told you.

You were twenty-three.

Too young, they’d whispered gently.

Too early.

Too complicated.

“You likely won’t be able to have children.”

They said it like it wasn’t your fault, even though that’s all you could think.

You remember staring at the wall behind the doctor’s head. A painting of sunflowers. Bright and cheerful.

You felt everything but.

John had held your hand the entire time.

Later, in the car, he rested his forehead against yours and said softly, “We’ll still have a good life. I promise you that.”

You believed him.

You still do.

But sometimes the silence in your house feels too big.

Sometimes the spare bedroom stays too empty.

Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night just to press your face into John’s chest and try not to cry.

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Soap is the first one you meet properly.

John MacTavish bursts into the room like a firecracker.

“Cap! Heard you’re finally bringin’ the missus around!”

He stops mid-stride when he actually sees you.

You’re smaller than he expected.

Softer.

Your smile is shy but warm.

“Oh,” he says.

Then he grins wide.

“Well hello there.”

John sighs behind you. “Behave.”

“I am behaving.”

Soap sticks his hand out immediately. “John MacTavish.. but ye can call me Johnny”

You take it, shaking gently.

“I’ve heard about you.” you say politely.

His eyebrows shoot up. “All good things, I hope.”

You glance at John.

John takes a slow sip of his tea, avoiding the eye contact.

Soap groans. “Ah, Christ.”

That makes you laugh.

And something about the sound makes Soap’s expression soften.

He doesn’t know why.

It just… feels nice.

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Gaz is next.

Kyle Garrick stands when you enter the room, polite in a way that feels almost old-fashioned.

“Ma’am.”

You blink. “You don’t have to call me that.”

“Yes I do.” he says automatically.

John snorts.

You smile gently. “You can call me whatever John calls me.”

Gaz looks briefly horrified.

Soap wheezes somewhere behind him.

John just lights a cigar.

“Don’t encourage them.”

But Gaz relaxes a little when you start asking questions.

Where he’s from.

How long he’s served.

If he’s eating properly.

The last question catches him off guard.

“I—yeah. Yeah, I eat.”

“You don’t skip meals, do you?”

Soap howls with laughter.

“Oh, you’re in for it now mate.”

Gaz glares at him.

But something warm flickers in his chest.

It’s been a long time since someone asked him that like it mattered.

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Ghost takes longer.

You notice him immediately.

He stands near the back of the room, silent and enormous. The skull mask hides everything but his eyes, dark and unreadable.

Simon Riley.

John told you about him.

Not details.

Just enough.

“A good man. Just… been through too much.”

You approach him anyway.

John watches closely.

Most people avoid Ghost.

You don’t.

You stop a polite distance away.

“Hello.”

Ghost stares down at you.

He’s huge.

You don’t seem afraid.

That confuses him.

“I’m John’s wife.” you add softly.

“I know.”

His voice is low and rough.

You smile.

“Well. It’s nice to meet you.”

You offer your hand.

The room goes quiet.

He hesitates… then slowly, awkwardly, he takes your hand.

His glove is rough against your skin.

Your handshake is gentle.

Warm.

“You take care of him..all of them” you say softly.

Ghost blinks.

“…wot?”

You nod toward John.

“He says you make sure they’re all safe if he can’t…”

A pause

“He still worries..”

Ghost just stares at you.

You’re serious.

Completely serious.

You smile again.

“And.. I worry too.”

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The first time they come to your house, it’s because of a storm.

A real Appalachian-style downpour, the kind that floods roads and rattles windows. John had mentioned you loved cooking for people, and somehow that had turned into an invitation.

Soap arrives first.

He smells like rain and something.. moss like.

You immediately push a towel into his hands.

“You’re dripping.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He obeys instantly, wiping himself off.

Gaz arrives next, polite as ever, taking his boots off without being asked.

Ghost lingers in the doorway.

He’s not sure he belongs in a house like this.

Your house smells like soup.

The warm, comforting kind.

“Come in.” you tell him with a smile.

He hesitates.

Then he steps inside.

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You cook too much.

John warned them.

They didn’t listen.

There’s stew, fresh bread, roasted vegetables, pie cooling on the counter.

Soap stares like he’s found heaven.

Gaz looks stunned.

Ghost sits at the table like he’s unsure if touching anything will break the illusion, like maybe this is just a dream.

You bustle around the kitchen.

“Johnny, you’re too thin.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

You scoop more stew into his bowl.

Gaz gets a second helping whether he asks or not.

Ghost gets extra bread placed silently on his plate.

He looks down at it.

Then at you.

You just smile and go back to stirring the pot.

John watches from his chair, cigar in hand.

Content.

Later, while the boys argue over something stupid in the living room, you lean against the counter beside him.

“They’re good boys..” you say quietly.

John hums.

“Trouble.” he corrects.

You shake your head.

“No.”

Your eyes drift toward the living room.

Soap laughing loudly.

Gaz trying to be the voice of reason.

Ghost sitting quietly in the corner but clearly listening.

Your voice softens.

“They just look like they needed someone.”

John watches you carefully.

You don’t say more.

But he knows.

The empty bedroom.

The quiet house.

The life you thought you’d have.

He reaches over and squeezes your hand.

“You’re good for them.” he says quietly.

You blink at him.

“What?”

He nods toward the living room.

“They don’t say it.”

Soap immediately yells something incomprehensible about stealing the last slice of pie.

Gaz shouts back.

Ghost mutters something dry that makes both of them louder.

John smiles faintly.

“But they’ll come back.”

You watch them.

These grown men.

Soldiers.

Dangerous, capable men.

Arguing over dessert like children.

Your chest aches.

But not the sad way.

The warm way.

“They’re always welcome.” you whisper.

And later, when Soap hugs you goodbye like he’s known you for years…

When Gaz thanks you three separate times for dinner…

When Ghost pauses at the door and quietly says,

“Thank you, ma’am.”

You realize something.

Maybe you weren’t meant to be a mother the way you thought.

But as the door closes and John wraps an arm around your shoulders…

You look at the three soldiers walking down your driveway.

And think…

Maybe this counts.

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It was a skill that had kept him alive more than once. Long before a weapon was raised or a voice sharpened, people told you who they were in smaller ways.. the way their eyes moved, how they held their shoulders, the rhythm of their breathing when they thought no one was paying attention to them.

Most people missed those things.

Simon didn’t.

He noticed who was nervous before a mission briefing. Who lied too easily. Who laughed too loudly to hide how afraid they were.

And when you, the new recruit arrived he noticed something about you almost immediately.

You were angry.

It wasn’t loud. Not the kind of anger that started shouting matches in the mess hall or got people written up by command.

No— yours was quieter than that.

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The first time he calls you bird, it isn’t planned.

It slips out low and rough over comms, threaded between gunfire and static.

“Got eyes on the east stairwell—two hostiles,” you murmur, voice steady despite the chaos crackling through your headset. Your fingers move fast across the keyboard, pulling feeds from three separate cameras, stitching angles together in your mind like a map only you can see. “Third one lagging behind, limping. Might be wounded.”

A beat.

Then, in your ear—gravel and smoke and something almost amused.

“Christ… you see everything, don’t you, bird?”

The line goes quiet again, but the name sticks.

CW: suggestive

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Simon was used to your dramatics. He expected tears, or at least a dramatic tackle hug. That’s usually how it went after deployments — you’d practically launch yourself at him the second he stepped through the apartment door, cling to him like he’d vanish again if you let go for even a second. He’d gotten used to it. Quietly liked it more than he’d ever admit.

So when he unlocked the apartment door after three months away and heard—

“OH MY GOD, NO, YOU IDIOT, DON’T PUT HIM ON THE FLOOR—”

He stopped dead.

The flat smelled faintly of vanilla candles and instant ramen. The TV flickered brightly in the dark living room. And there you were. Curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, blue light glasses sliding down your nose, completely locked in on your laptop screen. You hadn’t even noticed him.

Simon blinked slowly.

“…Love?”

You gasped so violently he thought you’d finally seen him. Instead, you slapped your keyboard.

“NO, NO, NO— FEED HIM. FEED THE BABY YOU IDIOT!”

Simon stared. Then your head finally whipped around, your face lit up instantly.

“SIMON!”

There it was.

He barely had time to drop his duffel bag before you scrambled over the couch and threw yourself at him. He caught you automatically, arms wrapping around your waist as you buried your face into his chest.

“There’s my girl..” he rumbled quietly.

“I missed you.” you mumbled into his chest.

“Missed you too.”

You pulled back enough to look at him properly, hands immediately grabbing his face like you needed to make sure he was real.

Then—

“Okay wait, hold on, I need to pause my game.”

Simon actually laughed.

A real laugh.

“You serious?”

“Yes! The baby’s gonna starve!”

“The—”

You slipped from his arms and darted back toward the couch. Simon followed slowly, exhausted and amused all at once, shrugging off his jacket while watching you click furiously at the screen.

And then he saw it.

A Sim version of you.

And beside you—

A Sim version of him.

Blonde, military haircut.

Broad shoulders.

Black clothes.

Even..his mask.

Simon stared at the screen in disbelief.

“…Is that me?”

You looked entirely unapologetic.

“Yeah.”

“You made me in this game?”

“Well obviously.”

He watched little Sim Simon stand in a kitchen while Sim You yelled at him in gibberish over a burning stove.

“…Why am I setting the kitchen on fire?”

“Because your cooking skill is literally level one.”

“I can cook.”

“In real life, yes. Sim Simon? Absolutely not.”

He huffed quietly through his nose. Then his eyes narrowed at the screen. There was a little pink relationship bar nearly maxed out.

A house.

Photos.

A tiny virtual child waddling through the kitchen.

Simon leaned closer.

“…We’ve got a kid?”

“Oh, yeah. Two actually.”

“Two?”

“The first one was an accident.”

Simon barked out another laugh, shaking his head.

“You’ve lost your mind while I’ve been gone.”

“Probably.”

You grinned at him before returning to your game. And Simon just… watched for a second. Watched you ramble excitedly about expansion packs and building furniture and how long it took to make his tattoos accurate.

Watched the way your eyes lit up.

God.

He missed this, missed you.

Then Sim You walked up to Sim Him on-screen and kissed him dramatically while romantic music chimed from the speakers.

Simon raised an eyebrow.

“…Right.”

You froze.

Very slowly, you turned your laptop slightly away from him.

“No.”

“What?”

“Don’t look at that.”

Now he was interested.

Simon leaned over the back of the couch, large hand braced beside your head as he peered down at the screen despite your protests.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s embarrassing!”

“Mm.”

His eyes tracked the screen carefully.

Then—

His gaze landed on the bed.

Rose petals.

Flirty moodlets.

And the very obvious “WooHoo” interaction option.

Simon went silent.

You went rigid.

“…Don’t.”

He looked at you slowly.

Then back at the screen.

Then at you again.

A dangerous little glint appeared in his eyes.

“You makin’ us shag in a video game, sweetheart?”

Your face immediately burst into flames.

“It’s not like that!”

“Mmhm.”

“It’s gameplay!”

“You do this often?”

“SIMON.”

He was absolutely enjoying this now.

You tried hiding your face behind your hands while he leaned down closer, voice dropping low and teasing near your ear.

“So.”

A pause.

“Am I any good?”

You made the single most offended noise he’d ever heard.

“Oh my GOD.”

Simon laughed again — properly this time — watching you dissolve into mortified squeaking beside him.

Then he reached over, shut the laptop gently, and lifted you off the couch.

“C’mon.” he murmured against your hair. “Think you’ll prefer the real thing over the game anyway.”

Your face somehow got even hotter.

And Simon decided very quickly that maybe this new sims addiction wasn’t so bad after all.

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The road hums in that lonely, empty way it only does when you’re too far from town and too close to the woods.

Your car had given up ten minutes ago.

Not a dramatic, cinematic death—no smoke curling from the hood, no loud bang. Just a sad, stuttering choke and then silence. Now it sits half on the gravel shoulder, tilted slightly, like it’s embarrassed of itself.

Like you are.

Your hands are still wrapped around the steering wheel.

You’ve already tried calling someone. No signal. Of course.

“Okay,” you murmur to yourself, voice thin in the quiet. “Okay, okay…”

You don’t know anything about cars. Not really. You can drive one, you can keep it clean, you can pretend you understand when someone says words like alternator or spark plugs, but under the hood might as well be a different language.

Still, you push the door open.

Cold air hits your face. The sky’s that dull gray that promises rain later, and the trees lining the road lean in close, whispering in the wind. It feels too big out here. Too empty.

You pop the hood like you’ve seen people do.

It lifts with a creak, and you step in front of it, peering down into a mess of metal and wires that means absolutely nothing to you.

“…great.” you whisper.

You reach in anyway, like maybe touching something will magically fix it. Your fingers hover uselessly over parts you don’t recognize. Your throat tightens.

You really, really don’t want to cry over a broken-down car on the side of the road.. but your eyes begin to water anyway.

The sound of an engine cuts through the quiet.

You freeze, quickly wiping your eyes.

Headlights sweep over you as a truck slows behind your car. Big. Older. The kind that sounds like it’s been rebuilt more than once. Gravel crunches under its tires as it pulls over.

Your stomach twists.

All alone in the middle of nowhere… you weren’t exactly hoping for a stranger.

The driver’s door opens with a heavy thunk.

Boots hit the ground.

You don’t turn around right away. You tell yourself not to panic. People help each other. It’s fine. It’s normal.

Still—your shoulders draw tight.

“Car givin’ you trouble?”

The voice is low. Rough. Northern, maybe—Manchester, if you had to guess. It’s not unfriendly, but it’s not soft either. Just… steady.

You turn.

He’s already walking toward you.

Tall. Broad. Dressed in a dark hoodie with the sleeves shoved up to his forearms, grease stains worked into the fabric like they’ll never come out. There’s a skull pattern pulled up over the lower half of his face—not a full mask, but enough to hide his mouth.

Enough to make you look harder.

His eyes are what catch you.

Sharp. Focused. Intense. Taking you in, then the car, then the open hood.

You swallow. “Yeah. It just… stopped.”

He hums, stepping closer to the front of the car. “That so.”

You instinctively take half a step back to give him room.

He notices.

You can tell by the way his gaze flicks to your movement, then softens—just slightly.

“Mind?” he gestures at the engine.

“Oh—no, yeah, go ahead. I mean—please,” you add quickly.

He leans in without another word, bracing one hand on the edge of the car as he looks inside. His other hand moves with quiet confidence, shifting something aside, checking connections, pressing here and there like he knows exactly what he’s looking for.

You stand there awkwardly, hands clasped together in front of you, trying not to notice the way his hands are.. steady, the strength in them undeniable.

“Did it make any weird noises before it died?” he asks.

You immediately move your gaze.

“Um… it kind of clicked? And then it just wouldn’t start again.”

He nods once, like that tells him everything.

There’s a pause. The wind moves through the trees again, louder this time.

You glance at him.

Up close, he’s… intimidating. Not just because of his size. There’s something controlled about him. Like everything he does is deliberate. No wasted movement.

But there’s also something else.

He hasn’t looked at you like you’re a problem.

Just… like you’re there.

“You out here alone?” he asks, still focused on the engine.

“…yeah.”

Another pause.

His jaw shifts under the fabric of the mask.

“Not the safest place to break down.” he mutters.

“I noticed..” you say, trying for a joke, but it comes out a little tight.

That gets the faintest reaction—a breath that might be a quiet huff of amusement.

He straightens slightly, reaching deeper into the engine, adjusting something with practiced ease.

“Battery connection’s loose,” he says. “Probably rattled free.”

“Oh.” You blink. “Is that… bad?”

“Not really.” A beat. “Means you’re lucky.”

You let out a small breath. “I’ll take lucky.”

He glances at you then. Properly, this time.

It’s quick. Just a flick of his eyes over your face. But it lingers a second longer than before.

Something in his posture shifts.

Subtle.

“…You got a name?” he asks.

You hesitate, then give it.

He repeats it under his breath, like he’s testing how it sounds.

Then, quieter—

“…fits.”

Your brows knit. “What does that mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tightens something under the hood, then finally steps back.

“Means you look like the sort that shouldn’t be stuck out here. Especially alone.” he says simply.

Your heart does something strange at that.

Before you can respond, he gestures toward the driver’s seat. “Try it now.”

“Oh—okay.”

You hurry around the car, sliding back into your seat. Your hands are still a little shaky as you turn the key.

The engine sputters—

Then starts.

You gasp, a bright, relieved sound, and lean back in your seat. “Oh my god—thank you.”

You jump back out, practically beaming as you look at him.

He’s already wiping his hands on a rag he pulled from his pocket, like it was nothing.

“It was just a loose connection.” he repeats.

“Still,” you say, stepping closer. “I would’ve just… stood there and cried, probably.”

He tilts his head slightly.

Then, almost under his breath—

“Yeah. Figured.”

You blink. “Hey—”

There’s that almost-smile again in his eyes.

He steps back toward his truck, like he’s already decided the interaction is over.

“Wait,” you call, taking a quick step after him. “I—um… I didn’t even get your name.”

He pauses.

Just for a second.

Then looks over his shoulder at you.

“Simon.”

It settles heavier than it should.

“Simon..” you repeat.

His gaze lingers on you again. Longer this time. Taking in your expression, the way you’re still standing too close, too open, too relieved.

Something about it seems to catch him off guard.

His voice drops when he speaks again.

“…Careful out here, yeah?”

You nod. “I will.”

He studies you for one more second.

Then, quieter—rougher, like it slipped out without permission—

“…Take care, dove.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t react to it. Or maybe he does, but it’s hidden behind the mask, behind the way he turns and climbs back into his truck like nothing happened.

The engine roars to life.

Gravel crunches.

And then he’s pulling away, disappearing down the road like he was never there at all.

But your car is running.

Your hands are now still where the shake of panic used to be.

And your chest feels..

different.

Warmer.

Maybe you’d have to find away to break down again.

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When he finally wakes up, it’s quiet.

No chaos. No shouting. No rush of boots or clipped orders.

Just the low hum of the med bay, the steady beep of monitors, and something… softer.

Something familiar.

His eyes open slowly, heavy, unfocused at first—ceiling lights blurring into white haze.

Then it sharpens.

And he feels it.

A hand.

Wrapped around his.

Small.

Warm.

Still.

He doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t speak.

Just… turns his head.

And there you are.

Slumped slightly in the chair beside his bed, your cheek resting against your folded arm, fingers still loosely curled around his like you never let go.

Your pink clipboard is half slipping off your lap. There’s a smudge of dried something—probably his blood—near the edge of your sleeve.

Part 1

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The first time he comes back to the med bay on his own, you assume it’s an accident.

You’re sitting at your desk, legs tucked under your chair, carefully lining up a row of bandages by size while your pink clipboard rests beside you. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and something sweet from the lip balm you keep absentmindedly using.

Bootsteps echo in the doorway.

Heavy. Familiar.

You look up.

And there he is.

Lieutenant Simon Riley, filling the frame like he always does, broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides, skull mask stark against the sterile white of the room.

You blink.

Then smile.

“Hi, Lieutenant.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks around the room—at the pink notes, the ribbons, the soft clutter that doesn’t belong in a place like this.

Then back to you.

“…Medic.”

It’s quieter than usual.

You tilt your head slightly. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

You wait.

He shifts his weight once.

“…Routine.”

Your smile softens, just a little brighter this time. “You’re early.”

“Was nearby.”

He wasn’t.

You know he wasn’t.

But you don’t call him out on it.

Instead, you pick up your clipboard and stand. “Well, I’m glad you came.”

He sits without being told this time.

That’s new.

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It becomes… a thing.

Not all at once. Not obvious.

But you start noticing him more.

Sometimes he lingers in the doorway like he’s deciding whether or not to walk in. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he just stands there long enough for you to glance up and smile before he disappears again.

The first time he shows up with an actual injury, it’s minor—a shallow cut across his knuckles.

You notice it immediately.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

You’re already standing. “Sit.”

He does.

You clean the cut gently, your fingers steady as you press gauze against his skin. He doesn’t flinch, but he watches you closely, dark eyes tracking every movement.

“You should come in sooner when things like this happen..” you murmur.

He huffs quietly. “S’not necessary.”

“It is if you don’t want it getting infected.”

You wrap his hand carefully, neat and precise.

When you’re done, you reach for your clipboard—then pause.

“…Wait.”

He goes still.

You rummage through one of your drawers and pull something out.

A sticker.

Small. Pink. A little smiley face.

You place it gently on the back of his bandage.

“There.”

Ghost stares at it.

Then at you.

“…What’s that.”

“A reward.”

“For what.”

“For coming in.”

There’s a long pause.

Then—

“…You’re serious.”

“Mhm.”

He looks back down at the sticker like it personally offended him.

But he doesn’t take it off.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

After that, you start giving them to him every time.

Different ones.

A rainbow. A flower. Once, a tiny cartoon cat.

At first, he just… tolerates it.

Stares at them. Says nothing.

But he keeps coming back.

And slowly—very slowly—he starts talking.

Not much.

Just little things.

“…Busy today?”

“Not too bad.”

“…You still wear pink?”

“Yes.”

“…Why.”

“Because I still like it.”

“…Right.”

You learn the rhythm of him. The pauses. The way he stands just a little too still, like he’s always bracing for something bad.

And he learns you.

The way you hum quietly while you work. The way you tap your pen against your clipboard when you’re thinking. The way you always smile at him like he’s not something to be feared.

One day, he comes in without saying a word and sits down.

You glance up, already smiling.

“Routine or sticker?”

There’s a beat.

“…Sticker.”

You laugh softly.

“Alright. But you still have to let me check you over.”

He exhales, but there’s no real resistance in it.

“…Fine.”

When you finish, you press a small sticker—a pink heart this time—against the back of his wrist.

Your fingers brush his skin.

Just for a second.

But he notices.

You don’t pull away quickly. Don’t make it awkward.

Just… natural.

“See?” you say lightly. “Worth it.”

He looks at the sticker.

Then at you.

And something in his gaze shifts.

Warmer.

Softer.

Dangerously close to something he doesn’t let himself feel.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

He starts finding reasons to come in.

A sore shoulder. A headache. A cut that definitely could’ve waited.

You never question it.

You just take care of him.

And each time, he stays a little longer.

Talks a little more.

One afternoon, he leans against the counter instead of sitting, watching you organize supplies.

“…Why d’you do this.”

You glance over. “What?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely at the room. “All of it.”

You smile a little, softer than usual.

“Because someone has to take care of people.”

He watches you for a long moment.

“…Yeah.”

And there’s something heavy in the way he says it.

Like he’s not used to being one of those people.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The day everything changes, it happens fast.

Too fast.

You’re in the med bay, halfway through reorganizing your drawers, when the doors slam open.

Voices. Loud. Urgent.

“Medic!”

You turn, heart jumping into your throat.

They’re carrying him.

Ghost.

There’s blood.

Too much blood.

It soaks through his gear, dark and spreading, dripping onto the floor in a trail that makes your stomach twist.

“Gunshot,” someone says. “And shrapnel—he’s losing a lot—”

“Get him on the table,” you cut in, already moving.

Everything shifts.

The softness disappears—not gone, just… buried.

Your hands are steady as you strip away his gear, as you press gauze hard against the wound.

“Simon,” you say, firm. “Stay with me.”

His head turns slightly at the sound of his name.

His eyes find yours.

They’re unfocused.

But they’re trying.

“Hey,” you murmur, softer now, even as your hands work quickly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His blood stains your pink scrubs.

You don’t care.

“Pressure.” you say, and someone else takes over where you guide them. You move to the next wound, assessing, thinking, acting.

You’ve done this before.

You know what you’re doing.

But this—

This is him.

And it’s different.

It’s.. personal.

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper under your breath as you work, voice barely audible over the chaos. “You still owe me like… ten checkups.”

His hand twitches weakly against the table.

You grab it without thinking and squeeze.

“Stay with me.”

For a second, his grip tightens—just barely—but it’s there.

Recognition.

Trust.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

Time blurs.

Orders. Movement. Blood. Pressure. Sutures.

At some point, he’s stabilized.

At some point, the bleeding slows.

At some point, the room gets quieter.

You don’t remember when.

All you remember is standing there, hands stained, chest tight, staring down at him as he finally lies still.

not lifeless, just… resting.

Breathing.

Alive.

You swallow hard.

“…You’re okay.” you murmur, more to yourself than him.

But your hand is still holding his.

And you don’t let go.

Even when everything else is finally still.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The first thing everyone notices about you is the color pink.

Pink scrubs. Pink pens. A pink clipboard covered in tiny pastel stickers—hearts, flowers, and a little cartoon bandage with a smiley face on it.

The second thing everyone notices is that you aren’t afraid of Ghost.

Which, according to the entire base, makes you either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

You hear the warnings your first week.

Soap leans against the med bay counter one morning while you organize gauze rolls, watching you with mild disbelief. “Ye know who that is, right?”

You glance up from the gauze rolls. “Who?”

“The big skull mask bloke who walks around like death himself.”

Gaz laughs from the doorway. “Lieutenant Ghost. Terrifies recruits for fun..? Breaks doors instead of knocking. That one?”

You blink once.

“Oh.”

Soap waits for you to react properly.

You simply shrug. “He seems nice.”

Soap nearly chokes.

The truth is, you’ve already met him.

It was two days ago. He walked past the med bay after training, boots heavy against the tile, gear slung over one shoulder. He’s massive—broad shoulders, tall enough that the overhead lights catch on the edges of the skull mask he never takes off.

You looked up from your desk.

And you smiled.

“Good afternoon..” a pause to look at the name Velcroed to his chest “Lieutenant Riley.”

He stopped walking.

People don’t greet him like that. You could tell by the way the hallway went quiet.

He stared at you for a moment through the black eye sockets of the mask, eyes dark and unreadable.

“…Afternoon.”

His voice was low. Almost.. hesitant?

You nodded politely and went back to writing on your clipboard.

Like it was completely normal.

After that, you greet him every time you see him.

“Hi, Lieutenant.”

“Morning, Lieutenant!”

“Hope you’re having a nice day Lieutenant.”

He never smiles—at least not that you can see—but he always gives a small grunt of acknowledgement. That’s enough for you.

What you do notice is that he never shows up to the med bay.

Which is a problem, because everyone is required to attend a monthly checkup.

Soap comes in complaining the whole time. Gaz jokes through the entire exam. Even Captain Price shows up on schedule.

Ghost?

Doesn’t come at all.

Three days after his appointment passes, you spot him turning the corner of a hallway and nearly run into his chest.

You stop just in time.

He looks down at you slowly.

Up close he’s even bigger.

You smile.

“Hi, Lieutenant Riley.”

“…What.”

You check your pink clipboard.

“You missed your checkup.”

He stares at you through the mask.

“…No I didn’t.”

You turn the clipboard around so he can see the neat list written in pink ink.

SIMON RILEY — MISSED APPOINTMENT

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“Not goin’.”

You tilt your head a little. “Why?”

“Don’t need it.”

The tone clearly says the conversation is over.

So you write something on your clipboard.

“Okay.”

He seems surprised by that. Like he expected an argument.

He steps past you.

Then you add sweetly, “I’ll just have to keep finding you until you do it.”

He stops walking.

Slowly turns his head.

You’re still smiling.

“…You serious?”

“Mhm.”

You tap the clipboard. “You’re overdue.”

He studies you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking.

You aren’t.

So over the next few days, you keep finding him.

In the hallway. Near the training room. Once outside the armory.

Every time, you smile.

Every time, you remind him.

“Your checkup is still overdue, Lieutenant.”

By the fourth time, he finally walks into the med bay himself.

You look up from your desk and brighten immediately.

“Oh! Hi, Lieutenant Riley.”

He sits in the chair like a man being sentenced.

“Do it quick.”

You nod happily. “Of course.”

You move through the exam like you would with anyone else. Pulse first. Your fingers rest lightly against his wrist while you count.

His skin is warm.

“Heart rate’s good,” you murmur, jotting the numbers down on your pink clipboard.

You reach for your stethoscope next. “Deep breath for me.”

He obeys, shoulders rising slowly.

The med bay is quiet except for your pen scratching across paper.

You don’t rush. You don’t treat him differently.

He’s just another patient.

“Alright,” you say gently after a moment. “Next I need to check your throat.”

He goes still.

You pause.

“Oh—right. Mask.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a small moment of silence before you ask softly, “Would it be alright if you lifted it just enough for me to see?”

You wait.

Most people would probably push him. Demand it. Try to force the issue.

You simply stand there patiently.

Eventually his hand lifts to the mask, pulling it up just enough for his mouth to be visible.

You don’t react. Don’t stare.

You lean a little closer with the small penlight. “Open please.”

He does.

You check his throat quickly, professional and calm.

“All good.” you say a moment later.

He lowers the mask again.

The rest of the checkup is quick—blood pressure, reflex test, a few more notes on your clipboard.

When you’re finished, you smile.

“All done.”

He stands from the chair.

There’s a brief pause before he gestures toward your scrubs.

“…Pink’s not regulation.”

You glance down at yourself.

“I know.”

“Why wear it then?”

You shrug. “Because I like it.”

He stares at you for a quiet second longer, eyes unreadable behind the skull mask.

Then he turns toward the door.

Halfway out, he stops.

“…Thanks.”

The word comes out rough. Quiet.

But genuine.

You watch him leave before looking down at your clipboard and writing the final note beneath his name in pink ink.

SIMON RILEY — MONTHLY CHECKUP

You tap your pen thoughtfully before adding—

Very grumpy. But cooperative.

Then doodle a tiny pink heart next to it.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The first time Simon sees you, you’re halfway up a mechanic’s chest and tearing him to pieces.

“You had one job,” you snap, voice cutting through the hangar like a blade. “One. And you still managed to screw it up so badly I’m wondering if you did it on purpose.”

The man—built, older, clearly outranking you in everything but nerve—doesn’t even try to argue.

Because you don’t let him.

You step closer, boots loud against the concrete, chin tipped up like you’re staring down a giant instead of barely reaching his shoulder.

“I don’t care what rank you think protects you,” you continue, quieter now—worse, somehow. “If that bird fails out of the air because of your laziness, I will personally make sure your career ends in a broom closet.”

Silence.

Thick.

Heavy.

A few heads turn. No one interferes.

From across the hangar, Ghost watches.

Still.

Silent.

Hooked.

There’s something wrong with him, he knows that. Always has been. What he endured growing up and years of war don’t leave a man right. But this—this sharp-tongued, five-foot menace dressing down grown men like they’re nothing—

Christ.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

You don’t even raise your voice again. You just look at the mechanic, unimpressed, like he’s already beneath you.

“Fix it,” you say flatly. “Or get replaced.”

Then you turn on your heel and walk off like the entire world should part for you.

Ghost exhales slowly behind his mask.

“Who’s that?” Soap mutters beside him, equal parts impressed and terrified.

Ghost doesn’t answer right away.

Because he’s still watching you.

Every step. Every sharp movement. The way you don’t hesitate, don’t soften, don’t care.

“…mine.” he says finally, voice low enough that Soap almost misses it.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

You don’t notice him at first.

Why would you?

He’s just another soldier in a mask, another shadow in a place full of them.

And you don’t waste your time on shadows.

The first time he speaks to you, it’s because you’re arguing again.

“—if you send me that report one more time with missing data, I will assume you’re illiterate and act accordingly.”

“I am your superior—”

“And I do not care,” you cut in instantly. “Fix it.”

There’s a pause.

Then, from behind you—

“Bit harsh, aren’t you?”

You turn.

Slow.

Measured.

Your eyes land on him—tall, broad, skull mask staring back at you like something out of a horror flick.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t hesitate.

You don’t even blink.

“…and you are?” you ask, flat and unimpressed.

Ghost—Simon—feels something snap pleasantly in his chest.

God.

You don’t know him.

You don’t even care.

You’re looking at him like he’s just another problem waiting to be dismissed.

“Ghost.” he says.

You hum, like that means absolutely nothing to you.

“Great,” you reply. “Then you can mind your business, Ghost.”

And you turn your back on him.

Just like that.

He’s done for.

Completely.

Utterly.

Gone.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

It starts small.

He notices things.

The way you take your coffee—black, no sugar, always too hot.

The way you pinch the bridge of your nose when you’re irritated (which is often).

The fact that no one touches you—no casual brushes, no friendly pats on the back—because you’d probably bite their hand off.

Good.

That suits him just fine.

He doesn’t touch you either.

Not yet.

But he stands closer than necessary.

Speaks to you more than he needs to.

Finds excuses.

“You missed a detail in your report.” he tells you once.

You snatch it from his hand, scanning it.

“…no I didn’t.”

“You did.” he replies calmly.

A beat.

You squint at it.

“…oh.”

Silence.

Then you look back at him, narrowing your eyes.

“…don’t get used to being right.”

Ghost feels something dangerously close to a smile pull at his mouth under the mask.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The others notice.

Of course they do.

“L.T.’s gone soft.” Soap whispers one day.

“Not soft..” Gaz mutters back, watching as Ghost silently sets a fresh cup of coffee down beside you before you even ask. “Worse.”

“Obsessed.”

You still don’t give him much.

A glance here. A clipped response there.

Sometimes you let him stand near you without telling him to piss off.

Sometimes.

And for Ghost?

It’s everything.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The shift happens on a bad day.

Everything’s gone wrong.

Reports missing. Equipment delayed. Someone incompetent breathing too close to your oxygen supply.

By the time Ghost finds you, you’re alone—finally—but you’re pacing, jaw tight, hands clenched.

“Problem?” he asks quietly.

“Several,” you snap, not even looking at him. “All fixable if people weren’t useless.”

He hums.

Steps closer.

You don’t tell him to stop.

That’s new.

“They bothering you?” he asks.

You scoff. “They bother me by existing.”

A pause.

Then, softer—sharper in a different way—

“…I don’t need help.”

“I know.” he says.

You finally look at him.

There’s something in your expression—not soft, never that—but tired. Frayed at the edges.

He tilts his head slightly.

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have it.”

You stare at him like you’re trying to figure him out.

Like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for.

“…you’re weird.” you decide.

“Been called worse.”

Another pause.

Then you sigh—short, annoyed—and scrub a hand over your face.

“…fine,” you mutter. “You can stay. Just don’t talk.”

Ghost nods his head.

Steps into your space.

Stays.

From then on It’s over for everyone else.

Because Simon Riley—silent, deadly, untouchable Ghost—

is yours.

He brings you coffee without asking.

Stands behind you like a wall when you’re tearing someone apart.

Fixes problems before they reach you.

And if anyone dares to speak to you out of line?

They don’t make that mistake twice.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

One day, you finally ask him.

“Why are you always around?”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

And for a second, something raw slips through the cracks.

“Because I want to be.”

You narrow your eyes.

Suspicious.

“…that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

A long pause.

Then—

“…weird..” you repeat.

But you don’t tell him to leave.

And Ghost?

He’s never been so completely, irrevocably owned in his life.

And he’s never been happier about it.

I was wondering if u could do some heavy angst

Of reader getting rejected by simon but uk

We all need a happy ending 😄

Ps: u are amazing, love you ♥️

Angsty simon ‘ghost’ riley rejecting you that turns very cutesy at the end…

──୨ৎ──

He was sending mixed signals just about everyday. Whenever he got injured he would bark at the nurses that he only wanted you to tend his wounds. It would make your mouth dry and your hands clammy, giving the wide eyed nurses an apologetic look before getting to work.

He’d follow your every movement with his eyes, groan purposefully when you prodded the tender skin. You’d blush and he’d chuckle dryly, smiling under the mask at the high he got from watching you squirm.

Then anywhere outside the infirmary he would barely cast you a glance, his affections put aside completely. You’d try to catch his gaze, sit down next to him at dinner but he’d have his back turned, attention diverted to anyone but you. You’d get teary eyed and leave early. He didn’t notice that either.

This time he had been unlucky with a knife, slicing into the skin of his lower abdomen. You were there the second he came in, bed creaking under his weight. “I’m gonna have to get you to take off your shirt, Lieutenant,” you said, eyes cowering from his. His eyes smiled as he stripped down from his gear, letting it thud to the ground before he removed his last layer, muscles rippling with the effort. Even his mask came off- in the privacy behind the curtains. You blinked at the ceiling and only looked down when you had to. The sharp contours of his V-line caught your gaze and you followed it down to the diagonal slash.

“Doll I could really use your help” he mused when you froze up. Your eyes snapped to his, a little wider and glossier than before.

“Yes- yes of course” you stammered, moving around him in a flash as you got to work, cleaning the wound. It made him suck in his stomach, muscles tightening and rippling under your fingers. Your own stomach seemed to do the same and you blinked rapidly, trying to ignore the hard, warm planes of him under your fingertips.

“You’re pretty when you’re flustered. You know that?” His gruff voice said. Your fingers halted, eyes slowly gliding up to his, searching for something. Honesty? Was he being real or was he messing with you?

It ached to know that in a few hours he would treat you with complete indifference. You didn’t reply. He huffed out in amusement, eyes burning into your skull.

“You don’t believe me?” He tilted his head slightly. You put the sedatives down and turned to him, forcing your spine to be straight. The second you really looked at him though, it all fell to pieces. His eyes were hooded, a little bloodshot as they traced you confidently. Skin was taught over his bulky muscles, breathing heavily. He had a happy trail that led down behind his pants- your eyes lingered there for a little too long.

“You think I’m pretty?” You whispered, voice far softer than you would’ve liked. Your nerve system felt like it was being charred, simmering from head to toe.

His eyes, surrounded by dried war paint, creased with a smile. “F’course I do.” He said, all gravel in his voice.

Then you took the leap. Carpe diem or whatever because maybe what it took for him to really notice you was a push. He clearly enjoyed looking at you. That was enough in this moment.

You stepped between his thighs where he sat on the bed, fingers wrapping around his neck as you dragged him closer and pressed your lips to his, sucking in a sharp breath as you closed your eyes so tightly you saw stars. He didn’t move for a second. Then his lips moved in tandem with yours, warm and slightly chapped.

But it was over in a heartbeat. He pulled back, grabbing your shoulders in large hands and pushing you slightly away from him- literally keeping you at arms length.

“Don’t do that, Doll” He said, his expression completely unreadable. Your eyes went wide as they darted rapidly between his.

“What?” Was all you could say, because his expression gave away absolutely nothing and it was driving you insane, your heart beating like a war drum in your chest. So hard it hurt.

“Let’s keep it professional, yeah?”

It ripped into you. You wanted to double over in anger, hurt, mortifying embarrassment. Silence wrecked the little bubble you had created for yourselves.

“You know what? Fuck you. Actually fuck you, Lieutenant.” The words bubbled past your lips with no inhibitions, eyes narrowed but in an entirely different way than before. How dare he use you for his shameless flirting and then- did he think you were some kind of toy to mess with?

“Is it because you’re a lieutenant? Is that why you think you can behave like this?” You whispered, not fuming but genuinely wondering where this audacity came from.

His eyes actually widened and you found satisfaction in being the one to fluster him for once. It made your chin lift itself a littler higher despite the warm tears that prickled at your eyes and blurred his hunky figure.

“No- I-“ he was rendered speechless which was a rare occasion. His shoulders slumped.

“You can fix that wound yourself.” you turned on your heel and scurried off, hiding the tears by looking down as you passed the nurses.

──୨ৎ──

You had avoided him for a week now. Getting other nurses to treat him even when he yelled that he wanted you. Because clearly that wasn’t true.

It had gotten you fairly unpopular in your workplace because now he was impossible to treat. It didn’t matter.

Your body still betrayed you; every time he was there he seemed to reach down your throat and twist your precious heart as tight as he could. He seemed angry. Which you didn’t understand because you were certainly the one who was right to feel that way- not him. But he scowled all day. At you. At anyone. Lost his temper at the most ordinary things.

Today you were asked to accompany their mission, waiting in the medical truck in case things went haywire. You had geared up; bulletproof vest, thick boots, gun at your hip. But that didn’t help much when an explosion went off.

You couldn’t see it, safely (you thought) hidden away in the truck as you followed along on the radio. It was a blast of heat, blast of pressure and a ringing in your ears that was deafening. Your head hit something, taking blunt force that made the sky spin. It took you a long time to recognise him as his shadow eclipsed the rest of the world away.

“Hey- doll can you hear me? Please- fuck-“ Ghosts words were far off, like you were underwater. It felt peaceful in some sick way, everything slowed down.

But for Simon this was anything but fucking peaceful. His precious, precious doll was hurt and he felt like the only one who could help you was you. He’d never felt so vulnerable, weak and useless and it angered him even more than he thought possible as he lifted your body, clutching it too tightly as he ran.

It was a blur to him as well as you. He called out, roared for someone to help. Got into the back of one of the cars, eyes never leaving your face as it rushed off. Your eyes were almost closed, rolling around your skull, dirt clinging to your delicate face.

Delicate. You were so delicate and he was so scared to ruin you. His roughness would overshadow all the softness you possessed and in his own stupid fears he pushed you away. He pushed you away and now you were breaking anyways.

He never left you. The nurses had gotten used to his barking, leaving him to sit by your bedside and clutch your hand in his, engulfing it. His forehead rested against your thigh as he tried to breathe right. He somehow felt this was all his fault. Maybe if he hadn’t been such a dick-

“Lieutenant?” Your voice was hoarse, quiet as a mouse as you slowly blinked down at him, wincing a little at the ache in your body. The chair scraped off the linoleum floor as he stood up and hunched over you, hands covering the sides of your face.

“Doll- you- I’m so sorry” he whispered, a knot in his throat that he wasn’t used to and didn’t know how to speak around. The relief that flooded him was like cool water over his burning body.

You pouted- frowning a little. “Hm?” Was all you could say, trying to gather your bearings as it all slowly came back to you. Your gaze shifted and he noticed the second you remembered.

“Oh.” Your voice was lower and wracked with dull disappointment. He shook his head rapidly.

“I shouldn’t have- I didn’t wanna ruin- I mean you’re so precious and pretty and soft and im-“ he tried to explain, wincing at how stupid he sounded.

“You’re afraid that you’re too harsh for someone like me.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement as you tried piecing it all together.

His heart stuttered because you understood him. Even through his stupid actions and his half said sentences you hit the nail. He blushed. Ripped the mask off.

“Yes.” He nodded slowly, cradling your face as his eyes flickered all over your face, still subtly checking that you were okay. It was the most earnest expression you’d seen from him.

“Stupid. Stupid reason” you mumbled under your breath, still a little dazed as your face scrunched up. He laughed. A real, hearty laugh.

“Yes it is. I didn’t mean to play with you like tha’. It was selfish.“ His calloused thumbs stroked over the softness of your cheeks, wiping away the dirt.

“You’re not being very professional, Lieutenant” you mused, a small smile tugging at your lips. Barely there. But his attention was stolen by you and he noticed every little thing.

“No im not. Don’ wanna be right now” he snickered, but his eyes were still wracked with guilt and concern. His warm breath fanned over your face, you hadn’t noticed how close he was to you.

“If you kiss me you better mean it” I whispered, a sliver of uncertainty lacing into my voice, hooded eyes softening. His jaw ticked. He deserved that. So much. And he didn’t feel like he deserved you but the thought of letting this fall to the ground because of his own fears was unbearable. He wasn’t supposed to fear anything. He sees blood, terror and violence all the time. And it only took one pretty girl for him to falter.

The kiss wasn’t hard or sudden. It was slow, his lips brushing over yours for a torturous amount of time before he licked over your bottom lip, tasting you on his tongue. He pressed his lips to yours. They were warm, wet as you allowed his tongue in, stroking it with precision, licking into your mouth and sucking on your tongue like he had all the time in the world. It warmed you up like a wildfire. His brows scrunched as he nearly whimpered into your mouth, inhaling like it was the first breath he’d taken in a week. That’s what it felt like to him.

You bit his bottom lip slightly before pulling away, giving it a daring second to see if he would push you away. He didn’t. His hands flexed against your cheek, fingers twirling the hair around your ear absentmindedly. “M’ gonna make it up to you.” He said determinedly. You couldn’t smother your smile.

Simon was fuming. Not with you exactly, it wasn’t your fault you were such a delicate, pretty little bird- of course you’d get attention at a scummy pub like this. And it wasn’t like you were his territory, his to claim in some way.

But if the bartender didn’t hurry up making that drink you wanted so that the handsome stranger next to you could move on, he’d get up from the cramped booth and make it him damn self.

You clearly weren’t the type to just bring someone home. Or were you? Fuck, was that a sexist prejudice he just had? He runs a hand over his face, over the surgical mask he had put back up the minute that man approached you to try and mask any reaction he might have. He’s so used to his grimaces being hidden that he was scared he couldn’t control them.

Soap nudged his arm that barely moved as he laughed heartily at his own story. Simon didn’t flinch, his eyes didn’t leave you. Aye, Soap noticed, shooting Gaz a knowing glance but none of them dared say anything because they were still having a good night.

Finally your hands grasped around a tall glass, ice rattling as you bid the man goodbye and headed for the teams designated table. Simon hadn’t been able to read your interactions; had you been flirting? Maybe politely declining? You’d be the type- Arh there he goes again giving you prejudices when you keep surprising him everyday about what ‘type’ you actually are.

You sit down with a small, flustered smile. Fuck, fuck, Simon’s hands tighten around his own pint, that otherwise sat untouched after you left. You blink up at him, looking like he’s the one that’s flustered you but he knows that isn’t true. It couldn’t be. He’s unmoving, eyes slowly dragging you over.

“What?” You ask, nervous, maybe a little defensive and he knows that you hate not being able to read him. He’s bristling, if he was a cat all hairs would be standing on end.

“Nothing.” His voice is terse, gruff as usual but it sounds like he has to force the words from his throat, willing his lips to move. You frown, and now he knows you won’t let it go- it gives a thrill through him: he knows you now. Knows what your expressions mean, what you’re feeling.

He sees your eyes drifting off, clearly in thought before your jaw tightens and your eyes fall to your drink. You look disappointed. That’s not what he expected really, and know he doesn’t know what to do. Jesus Christ why does he overthink everything when it comes to you now? It used to be simple before you bared your soul to him and now he just wants to keep you open for him.

He doesn’t know how to address this now. Why did you look like that? After that bath, where he’d asked you to touch him and gods you had touched him and he swore he died and went to heaven; after that, what was supposed to happen? Maybe you didn’t know either. You quickly schooled your expression and leaned a little over the table to join the conversation Simon had pushed into background noise. He didn’t like that one bit, putting your walls up now? Well he couldn’t have that.

“What did he want?” Simon tried asking casually as you leaned over, his mouth almost at your ear. You tensed, a micro movement but he noticed. You hadn’t expected him to adress it head on, perhaps, as you leaned back, diverting your attention to him again.

“My number” you replied and he felt his tongue sucking on his own teeth to calm down. He hummed in response.

“Did you give it?” He asked, trying to seem nonchalant, grateful for his mask as always. Your eyes twitched, expression lacing with some sort of offence or disbelief. He struggled to stay composed, heart rate elevating a little too fast.

You shook your head but it mainly looked like you were annoyed with him, more than it was an answer. Your eyes found the table, gathering yourself before looking up at him with a seriousness and intensity he hadn’t expected. “Of course I didn’t. Why would you think that?”

Shit, you seemed genuinely upset in some way. He was flustered, caught off guard. “I don’t know. Looked like you were having a good time.” He shouldn’t have said that, jealousy shining through his teeth and he knew it.

“Well I wasn’t” you said, quick but steady.

“You’re angry with me” he said it as a monotone statement because he didn’t want you to hear it for what it was.

“No- no im not-“ you sighed, running a hand through your hair that he eyed almost nervously. “I just don’t know why you would think that I would give him an ounce of my time” you mumbled, raising your brows shortly to indicate something. He swallowed thickly.

“I didn’t think it, I feared it” he admitted and it felt vulnerable enough that he had to look away, into the crowd of people. “Smiling like a schoolgirl when you came back, dove” he mumbled, a little to himself

“At you.” You corrected, trying to meet his gaze. “I found it funny that-“ he felt you lean closer so only he could hear, if anyone should happen to try and listen in. “-anyone would even try talking to me after I had my hands around your….”

He stiffened, shoulders moving a little, mask covering the blood surging to his cheeks at your next word. He had to clear his throat, make sure Soap didn’t hear. It was right, in that tub your hands had wandered a bit like he’d asked you to. Nothing more had happened than you feeling him up, leaving him on that gruesome but wonderful edge. Hearing what that meant to you, that that moment had solidified something between you the way it had to him made him wanna fucking moan. His eyes snapped to yours, a newfound confidence in them.

“Giggling at someone trying to take you home?” He said, his tone infinitely more lighter now. You merely shrugged, the offence from your face gone. Good.

He hummed, considering you for another second before huffing in dry amusement, shaking his head and finally lowering the mask again. He picked up the pint but your smaller hand gently pushed it to the table, earning his attention again.

“You don’t need to be jealous, Simon.” You said, oddly calm, brows scrunching subtly.

“Im not” he was quick, too quick and you both knew it. He swore under his breath and picked up his pint again as he saw the winning streak across your face.

But he knew that this meant. If he was jealous of someone else trying to pick you up, he’d have to do it himself or his feelings wouldnt have a valid place to settle, no value. Ugh just his luck, now he was basically forced to take you home himself…

Then he sees you at the pub.

It settled inside of him as a feeling of uselessness because he’s so used to knowing what to do. He takes action. He fixes things. And now he gets all flustered when you tend to his wounds, absentmindedly stroking his thigh and talking to him so so sweetly. Calling him a good boy when you finish the stitches, biting your lip as you focused on making them as neat as you could for him. He would stare at you the whole time, his cheeks heating because no one ever showed him this much care and you didn’t even seem to struggle with it- it was all natural.

You had labelled him ‘favorite patient’ in your phone but he didn’t know that. He figured you behaved like that with all the soldiers who came in- the reason you were such a good nurse.

After a well succeeded mission, the task force and the bases Staff all crowd down to the nearest pub. It was an excuse for you to finally be out of your work attire, adorning a black lacy top that made you feel sexy along with your glossy lips. He was already there, leaned back in a booth with Soap and Price as you walk in, looking around nervously.

He has to grit his teeth as he sees you. Fuck fuck fuck. This was gonna be a long night. He fisted his hands beneath the table.

This feeling of hopelessness, of not knowing what to do was so foreign that it bubbled into anger. Price frowned, noticing the rigid way his Lieutenant suddenly sat. Soap was too busy telling some story to notice anything, slamming down a hand, the beers rattling. Your colleagues crowded you into a booth that so conveniently faced him.

Why did he look at you like that? He was positively fuming, glowering, brows lowered and face set. You cowered under his gaze, eyes flickering away nervously.

His lips parted in soft surprise. Why did you look so nervous? Had he done something?

Because of course he was no clue how damn intimidating his so called love stare stare is. He follows you as you walk to the bar, leaning over, your skirt riding up. He has to blink up at the ceiling because it felt simultaneously like a gift from above, being allowed to see you like this, and like a curse from hell.

“Oh he’s down bad for her ain’t he, that fucker?” Soap exclaims, finally catching on as he lets out a hearty laugh. Simon glares.

“I think LT needs another pint” Price muses. Soap, ever the sergent he is, groans and gets up, patting Simon heavily on the shoulder before walking up to the bar next to you.

“You got him weak in the knees, Bunny” Soap grins casually, ordering the pints. It takes you a few seconds to comprehend before you lean backwards slightly, catching Simon’s gaze. This time he averts his eyes immediately. He was fucking fuming inside, not knowing how to get these feelings to go away. The only solutions he could think of were violence or sex. And violence he’s had enough of- and he’s sure the training dummies had too. Every damn night these past days he’s been punching his knuckles bloody, hoping it would satiate his restlessness. It didn’t.

And as for sex… he didn’t- well he didn’t not want that but that’s not where he wanted to start. He always threw himself into hookups or fiery flings that burned out too quickly, leaving embers he didn’t care for. He didn’t want that with you. He wanted to be genuine, slow, proper. And he had no idea how. He didn’t like not being good at things.

Your eyes stay on him, forcing his head to turn back to you. Your expression is unreadable, his fingers curling beneath the table before he rapidly stands up. You almost jolt at the action, the floor creaking from his weight as he stalks over to you and Soap, grumbling something.

Soap leaves, Simon trying to casually lean his elbows on the bar. “Just gonna wait for the pints” he tells you, then his jaw ticks because why did he say that? You probably don’t give a fuck what he’s doing there.

You smile softly, intrigued. “How’s your shoulder?”

It startled him, his head whipping to yours like you said something totally out of sorts. His shoulder? Right— It takes him way too long to answer.

“Fine. You did a good job. As always,” he said gruffly, looking down at the chipped wood of the bar, drumming his fingers impatiently.

“You look good.” The words slip past his lips, eyes quickly giving you a once over.

“I know.” He looks at you, sees a small glint in your eyes and the smile you smother. He wants to groan out loud at the sight.

A dry, almost laugh escapes him, shaking his head softly. “F’course you do.”

There’s a long, awkward silence where you both look anywhere but at each other, spines straightening, then slumping, then you both look at the bartender to keep busy.

He places your drink in front of you, three pints clattering in front of Simon. Neither of you move to take them.

“So I’m gonna go” Simon rumbles and turns, the pints clutched in his hands. He was overheating, fumbling in ever possible way he could and he couldn’t take it. You opened your mouth but he was already halfway across the room.

The pints rattle as he sits down. “So?” Soap asks as he leans forward. Simon grumbled that this isn fucking high school. But it’s not Soap he’s mad at. It’s himself. He had you right there.

You can’t focus the rest of the evening, laughing hollowly and sipping your drink with disinterest. Did he not find you interesting? It was so hard to read him that you started to doubt if he was playing with you. Maybe this was just the way he… was.

You hadn’t noticed everyone going out for a smoke. You hadn’t noticed the way he looked at you through the window like some kind of fucking stalker, only the glow from his cigarette giving colour to his shadow.

You down the rest of your drink, pulling your coat around you. The night is crispy, air poking your cheeks like needles.

“Are you ever going to ask me out? Because if not then I’d like to know- I don’t really know if you don’t like me or if I scare you or if there’s something entirely different at play but you cannot just stare at me and expe-“ a cold, chapped pair of lips silence you. They’re gone as quickly as they came you Simon’s eyes are wide, dropping his cigarette to the ground.

“I’m sorry- do you wanna- can I ask you out? I didn’t mean to do that but you talk a lot” he said bluntly, stuttering his way through his own mortifying actions.

He kissed you. To shut up your mindless yapping he… you shake your head in disbelief.

“You are unbelievable” you say, but there’s absolutely no malice in your tone- only wonder.

“Is that a yes?” He asks, his throat feeling tight.

“Yes. It’s a good technique you have there- do you do that on everyone? Kiss them when they talk too much? I can just imagine how Soap would rea-“

It was a classic, but one you’d never experienced yourself before now; a mission where you had to gain intel from someone at a high class event. Meaning you had to get dolled up with your mission partner. Guess who?

It had been forever since you’d worn a dress; this way or work didn’t give much opportunity for it. It had been so long that you only had one in your closet- but it was everything to you- a tiny part of the persons you’d had to store away when becoming part of a military task force. Hidden away in a box on the top of your closet at your barracks.

You smoothed it out, admiring it on its own for a moment before slipping it over you, tying the back so it dipped at your waist, giving you a sense of security at the slight pressure. Your hands ran over the dark green fabric that matched the emeralds in your ears and down along your cleavage, looking like crystal droplets over the taught skin of your collarbones.

Your hair had been neatly curled- cheeks rosy, eyelids shimmering and lips a muted mauve. It was very different from the tactical gear most operations called for and it felt naked to only have the gun at your inner thigh and the smallest piece that was draped over by your hair.

Your heart pounded like a war drum as you stepped into the entrance of the base, at the double doors that led to the parking lot.

You knew it would draw attention- you’d never looked anything like this since you joined the task force and you felt so self conscious that your knees nearly buckled, feet unsteady in the heels that hugged them. But you knew you looked good- repeated it to yourself because half of this was confidence.

And so did he. Simon was adjusting the cuffs of his suit with a grunt, annoyed at the feel of the tight button up trapped under the black habit jacket that bulged over his muscles. But when he turned around his hand fell away from his cuffs mindlessly, going lax at his sides. He hadn’t known the way his heart stuttered before. He hadn’t known what to expect but you- you were a sight for sore eyes.

It didn’t help him at all with how he struggled to decipher his feelings for you. After seeing you so vulnerable and human, crying on that concrete floor he thought that was as far as he could ever go. Then you had bandaged his knuckles, and let him cuddle you in the irrevocable silence on that couch. But this was another stepping stone: you in that dress.

He could see a confidence in you that he’d either never noticed or that was brought forth by the way you looked tonight. Which would be very valid in his opinion because he’d been looking at you without saying anything for a solid minute now.

You frowned, fidgeting with the rings on your fingers because you couldn’t read his expression at all.

“You should wear a suit more often,” you said, roving shamelessly over his hunky figure, looking even taller with the dark suit on, his thick thighs coming to their right. You wanted to kiss his knuckles again.

Kiss a lot of him, actually.

“Fuckin’ annoying” he grumbled and rolled his shoulders in the suit, the jacket creaking with the motion. It was his way of accepting the compliment without, and you both knew it. He wanted to compliment you too, but there was so much he wanted to say that absolutely nothing came out. And when he saw the shameless hunger in your eyes as you trailed the movements of his hands, he definitely couldn’t speak. Had you always looked at him like that? Or did these past weeks open gates for you too?

You gulped down the disappointment when he didn’t say anything after a long beat of opportunity, masking your expression quickly as your spine straightened, hands smoothing down the fabric along your hips. “The car is waiting” you say, silence unbearable as your heels click on the linoleum, walking into the moonlight lid parking lot.

You both go over the mission details in the car, but his eyes kept finding their way to your silly curls bouncing around your face, the light in the car shining off of your lips. He gritted his teeth.

“Where’s your gun?” He asked because he would never forget that the mission was so much more dangerous like this- despite the rest of the task force being on standby, you could both get hurt way easier in this attire- especially you. He could wear a bulletproof vest under his button up. You could not- and ghost had yelled at you to find something else to wear but you refused. This was your lucky dress.

Then you unconsciously did the hottest thing he’d ever seen in his goddamn life as you spread your thighs slightly in your seat, fingers grazing and pulling aside the satin material of the slit in your dress to reveal your bare thigh, gun strapped to the plush of your inner skin. He might’ve died, and you had no clue, simply pulling the dress back in place and looking over the blueprints one more time.

The air prickled at your skin and you tugged the shawl closer around your arms when his large hand slipped over the satin, landing on the bare skin on the small of your back. The contact was electric and you both stiffened, looking up at the adorned building ahead, checking your earpieces before walking up the shiny stairs.

Right before the staff opened the golden double doors for you, giving out your fake names, he leans down to the shell of your ear.

“You’re the most gorgeous fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen, love, I can’t focus.” He managed to grumble out just before nudging your lower back gently to start walking. His eyes immediately honed in on the people and the layout. But you felt frozen in place, eyes widening impossibly much at his singular, lethal sentence.

That he’d ever seen? Of everything in the entire world he’d ever seen? It rung around your skull, zapping all the way to your toes that curled inside the heels, a unusually giddy feeling wracking up and down your spine, making your hips sway a little more as you followed his guiding hand.

He could feel your warm skin under his palm, the way your muscles moved with every sway, and immense satisfaction coursed through him when he noticed the subtle change his compliment had caused.

Maybe tonight he would pretend- for the mission of course- that you really were his. Really give it his all- make up a story of how you met. Tell people he’s gonna propose. No no no what the fuck? He’s taking it way too far. The mission came first. The thrill of showing you off on his arm came second.

That’s what he said, until a woman commented on how lucky he was, both his and her eyes watching you as you stood next to one of your targets for intel, sipping a champagne glass and twirling your hair.

“I am. I really am.” He said, not noticing the woman had already left.

"So am I." Cue the snort, mortified stares from onlookers, and you laughing so hard, you're crying.

Next go round? "What's a pretty thing like you doing here?" "...Waiting on the missus, luv." "Oh. Wanna wait together?" Simon smirks, you guffaw, and you notice someone haul ass from your periphery.

part one. part two.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

repost from my old deleted account tobeholyistobeempty - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

“Stop teasin’ me.”

You look from your place in bed, glasses almost sliding off of your nose. You glance around the room once before pointing at yourself. Simon gives you a dead-serious nod of his head, drilling holes into you with his eyes.

“Huh, what’d I do, Si?”

“All that. I’m tellin’ you t’ stop bein’ a tease.”

You take yourself into account. You are sitting in bed in your ugly, mismatched pajamas, reading a book with everything about you totally undone. You were just nodding off when he walked in. What’s Simon on about?

“I’m-… Are we playing around? Joking? I don’t get it.” You’re about as un-sexy as you can be.

He huffs and walks up to the edge of the bed, reaching under the covers to wrap a large hand around your ankle and pull you to the edge, locked under his gaze as blankets crowd around you. “Look at ya, love. Quit playing games.”

You finally find it in you to laugh at his ambiguity, watching the corners of his mouth quirk. He shifts on his feet uncomfortably, tightening his grip around your ankle. “I don’t understand. I’m very unattractive right now. Startlingly so.”

“Don’t say tha’.” He mutters, leaning over to shove his face into the crook of your neck, humming in relief as he presses into you. You wrestle your arms free to throw around him, curling into his heavy body. The moment goes on sweetly until his hips roll lazily against you, exhaling shakily.

It happened only one time and now here you are. Having gotten tired of your sweet, yet very nosy and persistent neighbor that kept trying to pair you up with one of her sons, trying to stage "accidental" meetings and always inviting you for dinner, one day you just had enough. So when she stops you again outside, gushing about her lawyer son and how cute the two of you would look together, you politely tell her you have a boyfriend. At first she doesn't believe it and asks to see a picture of him so you pull out the photo you secretly took of a slightly drunk Ghost, head slumped over your shoulder and his mask halfway off.

The picture has the desired effect, the image of that behemoth of a man whose biceps don't even fit into frame and mean look on his face are enough to make anyone back off. The problem is that news travel fast in small towns and now somehow everybody and their mother knows about your military boyfriend and can't wait to see him around.

Because fate has a twisted kind of humour, your lieutenant ends up temporarily living in your home after his apartment gets flooded. You only made the offer because he saved your ass during the last mission, not expecting him to actually accept it. And it's just your luck that the same neighbor happens to see him was spying through the blinds and decides to say hello and how good is to finally meet him.

It's just your luck that Ghost's taciturn demeanour cuts the conversation short, but the look he gives you is not encouraging. You try explaining the situation to him, apologizing every three seconds until he finally stops you and tells you that he's willing to pretend to be your boyfriend until his apartment gets fixed. You're so happy and thankful that don't even notice when he steps out on the balcony to make a call and break the lease for his old apartment, already planning to move the rest of his meager possessions here.

Ghost that gets very comfortable into his role as your fake boyfriend and maybe leans a bit too much into it under the pretense of "having to sell the picture". Suddenly he calls you "luvie", getting a special kind of satisfaction from seeing your embarassed expression when he does it that around other people. He pulls you into his lap while on a picnic, a hand on the small of your back when walking down the stree, even stealing a kiss or two after asking for permission of course.

You're not safe even inside your own home, finding Ghost only in a pair of boxers with a beer in his hand while watching a game on TV. The little patting motion he does on the spot next to him having your body moving on its own. It's him getting out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around him, watching that one drop of water falling down his neck, over his Adam's apple and then down his chest. He watches you back with a smirk curling on his lips. He sits too close behind you while looking for something in the upper cupboard, his body pressing flatly against yours, staying there for a moment too long to be accidental. It's only when the contact is over that you finally remember how to breath properly.