Haunted

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Your world is small, contained.

A dim operations room buried somewhere deep in the base, humming with electricity and recycled air. The overhead lights are always too soft or too harsh—never just right—so you’ve taken to leaving only your desk lamp on. It casts a warm, golden pool over your workspace, leaving the rest of the room in a kind of permanent twilight.

Screens line the wall in front of you—six in total, each flickering with different feeds: satellite imaging, drone footage, helmet cams. One is always reserved for him.

Ghost.

Though you never call him that out loud. Not really.

To you, he’s just a voice. A presence. A constant thread in your ear during long nights and longer missions.

You know the cadence of his breathing when he’s crouched and waiting. The way his voice drops half a register when something’s wrong. The quiet, almost imperceptible hitch when he’s injured but refusing to say it.

You know him in pieces.

“Talk to me, bird,” he says one night, softer than usual.

You glance at his feed. He’s tucked behind a crumbling wall, dust coating the camera lens. There’s blood—dark and drying—on his glove.

“Two tangos left,” you reply. “One on your six, slow approach. Other’s posted near the exit.”

A pause.

Then, quieter.

“You always watchin’ me that close?”

Your fingers still for half a second before you recover.

“It’s my job.”

A faint huff of something that might be a laugh.

“Right.”

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It becomes routine.

Late hours. Your voice guiding him through shadows. His voice grounding you when the silence between updates stretches too long.

Sometimes, when the mission lulls, he talks.

Not much. Never too much.

But enough.

“You ever leave that room, bird?” he asks once.

You glance around at your little corner of the world—half-empty coffee mug, a blanket thrown over the back of your chair, a sticky note peeling off your monitor with scribbled doodles and coordinates.

“Sometimes,” you say. “I think.”

“Think?”

“It’s… easy to lose track of time in here.”

A quiet hum through the comms. Thoughtful.

“Sounds like a cage.”

You swallow, eyes flicking back to his feed.

“Not really.”

A beat.

Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

“Still.”

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You imagine him, sometimes.

Not the mask—that’s all anyone ever sees.

You imagine the man underneath. The lines of his face, the thoughts in his mind, the way he probably looks at a room before stepping into it.

You build him from fragments.

From silence.

From the way he says your name—rare, but it happens.

From the way he says bird—like it means something.

The first time something goes wrong, really wrong, your hands shake.

“Ghost, you need to move. Now.” Your voice is tighter than you’d like, eyes darting across the feeds. “They’ve rerouted—there’s a squad heading straight for you.”

No response.

“Ghost.”

Static.

Your chest tightens.

“Simon.”

The name slips out before you can stop it.

And suddenly—

“I’m here.”

Relief hits so hard it almost hurts.

“I lost visual,” you say quickly, forcing yourself back into focus. “Camera’s down. You’re blind to me.”

“Not blind,” he mutters. “Still got you, don’t I?”

Your throat goes dry.

You guide him anyway. Off memory, off instinct, off the rhythm you’ve built together over countless missions.

Step by step.

Breath by breath.

Until he’s out.

Safe.

They tell you later it was close.

Too close.

You stay in your chair long after the room empties, screens dimming one by one until only your desk lamp remains.

The silence is louder than gunfire.

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You don’t expect to meet him.

Handlers don’t meet operators. That’s not how this works. You’re voices, not faces. Ghosts in different ways.

So when your door opens one evening—quiet, deliberate—you don’t look up right away.

“Room’s off-limits,” you say absently, eyes still scanning reports. “You’ll need—”

You stop.

Because the room feels… different.

Heavier.

You look up slowly.

And there he is.

Filling the doorway like something pulled straight out of shadow. Broad shoulders, tactical gear, the skull mask stark in the low light. Real in a way that steals the air from your lungs.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“…Bird.”

It’s quieter in person. Rougher. Real.

Your heart stutters.

“You’re not supposed to be here..” you manage.

“Yeah,” he says, stepping inside anyway, boots barely making a sound against the floor. “Got that impression.”

He looks around your space—your screens, your notes, your carefully controlled chaos.

“This where you’ve been watchin’ me from?”

You nod, suddenly very aware of how small the room is. How close he is.

“All of it,” you say. “Every mission.”

His gaze shifts back to you.

You can’t see his eyes. Not really. But you feel them.

Heavy. Intent.

“Then I figured,” he says slowly, “it’s about time I saw you back.”

Something tightens in your chest.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Wanted to.”

The words land heavier than they should.

Silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. Not like before. Not like the empty kind.

This is… full.

“You’re quieter in person..” you say softly.

A faint tilt of his head.

“Am I?”

“Yeah.” You hesitate. “But less… hidden.”

A low exhale. Not quite a laugh.

“Funny..,” he murmurs. “Was gonna say the same about you.”

Your lips twitch.

“Guess we’re both a little different off comms.”

“Maybe.” He steps closer—slow, deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you want to.

You don’t.

Up close, he’s overwhelming. Not just in size, but in presence. Like standing too close to a storm.

But there’s something else, too.

Something familiar.

“You called me Simon.” he says quietly.

Heat rushes to your face.

“I—thought I lost you.”

A pause.

Then, softer..

“Didn’t.”

Your breath catches.

For a moment, it feels like you’re still on comms—like this is just another fragile thread of connection stretched across distance.

Except there’s no distance now.

Just him.

Just you.

Just the quiet hum of the room that’s held your voice for so long.

“Guess I’m not just a voice anymore.” you say.

“No,” he agrees.

A beat.

Then, low and certain.

“Still my bird, though.”

You'd shared foxholes, traded rations, pulled each other out of the line of fire more times than you could count. He was like smoke wrapped in tactical gear and that ever-present skull—unpredictable, untouchable.

Late nights in the barracks, you'd caught yourself staring at the line of his jaw under the mask, wondering what it would take to crack that armor.

But he never gave an inch. Professional to a fault.

Friends.

comrades.

Nothing more.

The base was a makeshift affair—tents and prefab units slapped together in the middle of nowhere.

No dedicated female facilities, which meant the women's showers were a myth.

Price had grunted something about "making do," but after days of sweat and grime caking your skin, you weren't waiting. The men's showers were empty this late..the lads were either crashed out or drowning their exhaustion in whatever passed for booze here.

You slipped in, the door creaking shut behind you like a secret.

Steam already billowed from the single faucet you'd cranked on, hot water pounding against the cracked tiles in a relentless rhythm.

You stripped quickly, efficient as always—fatigues pooling at your feet, then the rest. The water hit you like a balm, scalding and soothing all at once. You tipped your head back, letting it cascade over your shoulders, washing away the mission's ghosts.

Your eyes fluttered shut, the steam wrapping around you like a fog, thick and enveloping. For a moment, it was just you and the heat, the world narrowing to the spray and the ache easing from your bones.

Then.. the door hinge groaned again.

Your eyes snapped open, heart slamming against your ribs. Through the haze, a silhouette loomed—broad shoulders, the unmistakable bulk of tac vest.

"Ghost?" Your voice echoed off the tiles, sharper than intended.

You didn't move to cover yourself..modesty was a casualty of this life, and besides, it was just him.

But the air thickened, charged with something unspoken.

He froze, the door clicking shut behind him. "Didn't know anyone was in here." His voice was low, gravel-rough from disuse, muffled slightly by the mask.

But he didn't turn away.

Didn't bolt.

His gaze—those dark eyes you could just make out—lingered, tracing the water-slicked lines of your body before snapping back to your face.

"Base ran out of options..” you said, forcing steadiness into your tone, though your pulse thrummed in your ears. "You gonna stand there or...?"

A beat of silence, heavy as the steam curling between you.

Then he moved, deliberate.

His vest hit the bench with a thud, followed by the clink of belts and buckles. Boots next, laces tugged free.

You watched, breath catching, as he peeled away the layers—shirt clinging to his chest before it dropped, revealing the scars that mapped his torso; war stories etched in skin. Pants, underwear. All of it. He was bare now, every inch of him corded muscle and old wounds, unyielding even in vulnerability.

And then, the mask. His hands—now bare, for once—reached up, pulling the balaclava free in one slow motion. The steam beaded on his short-blonde hair as he tossed it aside.

Simon Riley, unmasked.

Sharp jaw, faint stubble, eyes that burned like embers under straight brows. Older than you'd imagined in some ways, haunted in others, but real.

Human.

He stepped under the spray with you, the water sluicing over his shoulders, rivulets tracing the planes of his chest.

The space felt smaller now, the steam a living thing pressing you closer. You could smell him—clean sweat, faint gun oil, the man beneath the myth.

"Simon..” you whispered, the name slipping out unbidden. Your back pressed against the cool tile, heat blooming low in your belly despite the exhaustion.

He didn't touch you.

Not yet.

His eyes searched yours, water dripping from his lashes. "This wha’ you want?"

His voice was quieter now, stripped of the modulator, raw and direct.

A hand lifted, hovering near your shoulder, not quite touching, like he was testing the air between you. "Tell me no, and I'm out. No harm, no hard feelings.. But if we're doin' this..." His words trailed off, the implication hanging heavier than the humidity.

Those eyes—honey brown, unguarded for the first time—held yours captive, demanding honesty.

You'd danced around this for months, the unspoken pull in stolen glances during briefings, the way his presence grounded you amid chaos. He was impossible to read, but right now, the vulnerability in his stance cracked that facade. He was waiting.

Waiting for you.

Your breath hitched, water streaming down your face like tears you wouldn't shed. The mission's toll, the near-misses, it all crystallized in this moment—him, bare and real, offering a line you both knew couldn't be uncrossed.

"Yes..” you said, voice steady despite the tremor in your core. "Simon, please. I want this…you."

That was all he needed. His hand closed the distance, fingers splaying against the tile beside your head, caging you in without trapping.

His other palm found your waist, rough calluses sliding over your wet skin, igniting sparks that chased away the chill.

He leaned in, breath mingling with the steam, lips brushing your ear. "Been thinkin' about you. Too much."

The admission was a rumble, low and confessional, as if the words had been locked away as long as the mask.

His mouth claimed yours then—slow at first, testing, a clash of heat and hunger that built like a storm.

You arched into him, hands roaming the hard ridges of his back, nails digging in as the kiss deepened. Tongues tangled, tasting salt and steam, the world narrowing to the press of bodies and the relentless pour of water.

He was everywhere—hands mapping your curves, thumbs circling your nipples until you gasped into his mouth.

But he pulled back, eyes dark with intent. "Not rushin' this." Dropping to his knees in one fluid motion, the tile biting into his skin, he looked up at you like a man who'd crossed deserts for a taste.

Water cascaded over his shoulders, plastering damp hair to his forehead, making him look almost feral—starved, like the walls he'd built were crumbling under the weight of want.

His hands gripped your thighs, parting them with a gentleness that belied the fire in his gaze. "Gonna take care of you first… I need to."

No more words. His mouth descended, hot and insistent, lips sealing around your clit with a suck that ripped a moan from your throat. The steam swirled thicker, the shower's roar muffling your cries as he devoured you.

Tongue flat and broad, he licked through your folds, slow drags that built pressure like a coiled spring. You threaded fingers through his wet hair, holding on as he worked you over—circling, flicking, then plunging inside with a growl that vibrated through you.

He ate you like a man denied for too long, relentless.

Worshipful.

One hand braced on your hip, the other sliding up to tease your entrance, fingers curling in just enough to make you buck against his face.

The tension you'd carried for months snapped here, in the haze of heat and his unyielding focus. Your legs trembled, the world tilting as pleasure crested, sharp and shattering. "Simon—fuck—" You came with a cry, waves crashing through you, his name a plea on your lips as he lapped you through it, not stopping until you sagged against the wall.

He rose then, water sluicing down his body, cock hard and heavy against his thigh. Eyes locked on yours, he didn't ask this time—just lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you back against the tile.

"Ready?" he murmured, forehead to yours, voice wrecked.

"God, yes." You rocked against him, guiding him in. He thrust home in one deep slide, filling you completely—thick, stretching, the perfect ache that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

The rhythm built fast, water pounding like a heartbeat as he drove into you, hips snapping with controlled power. Each plunge hit deep, his hands bruising your thighs, your nails raking his shoulders. Steam cloaked you both, the air thick with gasps and the wet slap of skin, tension unraveling into raw need.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, stubble scraping as he groaned your name—first time you'd heard it like that, possessive and undone.

"So good... fuck, you feel—" Words fractured into grunts, pace quickening until the coil wound tight again. You clenched around him, pulling him over the edge with you, his release spilling hot inside as yours milked him dry.

He held you there, bodies trembling in unison, the aftershocks rippling through you both like echoes of gunfire fading into silence.

The water continued its endless cascade, rinsing away the evidence of your unraveling, but it couldn't wash out the shift between you—the line crossed, the masks shed in more ways than one.

Simon's breath came in ragged huffs against your skin, his arms a steel band around you, holding you up as if you were the only solid thing in his world.

He didn't pull out right away, staying buried deep, letting the intimacy linger in the humid haze.

His lips brushed your collarbone, soft now, almost reverent. "You alright..?" The question was murmured, voice husky and low, laced with that rare vulnerability you'd glimpsed before the storm.

You nodded, fingers tracing lazy patterns on the nape of his neck, feeling the pulse there..

steady.

alive.

"More than alright... you?" It felt surreal, this tenderness from him, the man who'd always been a fortress.

But here, under the comforting pour, he was just Simon.

Your Simon, maybe.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, vibrating through you. "Bloody brilliant."

He eased out slowly, the sensation drawing a shared hiss, then set you gently on your feet. Your legs felt like jelly, but he steadied you with hands that knew restraint now as well as force. Turning you under the spray, he worked shampoo into your hair—his, with a faint scent of pine and earth—fingers massaging your scalp with surprising care.

You returned the favor, soaping his broad back, tracing the scars that told stories you wanted to hear someday, when the world wasn't breathing down your necks.

The steam began to thin as the hot water faltered, a reminder that even in this stolen pocket of time, reality loomed.

He shut off the water, the sudden quiet amplifying your heartbeats.

Grabbing towels from the rack—rough, institutional things—he wrapped one around you first, tucking it secure before tending to himself. His eyes met yours again, unmasked and open, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Didn't plan on this. But... glad it happened."

"Me too..” you whispered, stepping closer, stealing one last kiss—soft, lingering, a promise amid the uncertainty.

The mission's ghosts might return at dawn, but for tonight, you'd forged something unbreakable. As you dressed in the dim light, stealing glances at the man piecing his armor back on—mask last, like slipping into shadow—you knew the tension that had simmered for so long had only deepened into something fiercer.

Whatever came next, you'd face it together.

More than friends.

More than ever.

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These requests are giving me motivation.. pls keep sending them<3

It happened mid-sentence while Laswell was explaining a satellite window.

Ghost’s head turned slightly toward the glass wall that overlooked the hallway.

Soap noticed first.

“…an’ if the timing’s off—” Soap stopped mid ramble and followed Ghost’s line of sight.

Walking down the hallway was you.

You had a small stack of folders hugged to your chest, head slightly down like you always walked…careful, quiet, like you were trying not to take up too much space. Your office was down the hall in the records room, which meant you sometimes passed the briefing room.

You didn’t even glance inside.

Just kept walking.

Ghost watched you the entire time.

Not in the casual way someone notices movement.

No.

It was focused. Intent. Like he’d completely forgotten where he was.

Laswell stopped talking.

Price’s eyes shifted from Ghost to the hallway.

Gaz smirked first.

Soap leaned back in his chair slowly.

“…Lt.”

No response.

“Ghost,” Price repeated, more amused now.

Ghost blinked and looked back at the room like he’d just been woken up.

“…Wot.”

Soap grinned like a shark that smelled blood in the water.

“Oh, nothing, mate. Just wonderin’ why ye look like a guard dog watchin’ the front gate every time she walks by.”

Ghost stiffened.

Laswell closed the folder in her hands slowly, clearly deciding the briefing could wait.

Gaz tilted his head.

“Records girl, right?”

Ghost said nothing.

Soap slammed his hands on the table.

“OH MY GOD YE FANCY HER.”

Ghost’s head snapped toward him.

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do,” Gaz said instantly.

Price sighed, rubbing his forehead like a tired father.

“Simon.”

“…Sir.”

“If you don’t like her.. why’d you stop listening when she walked past the room?”

Silence.

Ghost shifted his weight slightly.

Soap leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Better question — why’ve you never spoken to her?”

That got a reaction.

A small one.

Ghost looked… uncomfortable.

Which was deeply concerning.

“Don’t see the issue,” he muttered.

Gaz blinked.

“You’ve cleared buildings full of armed men.”

Soap nodded.

“You once broke a bloke’s arm without batting an eye.”

Price added calmly, “You interrogated a cartel lieutenant… for six hours without even raising your voice.”

Soap pointed toward the hallway dramatically.

“And yet the girl who files paperwork terrifies you.”

Ghost glared at him.

“She doesn’t.”

Laswell raised an eyebrow.

“Then why haven’t you spoken to her.”

Ghost looked back at the hallway.

Like you might walk past again.

His voice was quieter when he finally answered.

“…She’s nice.”

The room went silent.

Soap squinted.

“…That’s it?”

Ghost shrugged slightly.

“She’s… soft.”

Gaz’s grin widened.

Soap leaned forward again.

“Mate.”

Ghost didn’t look at them.

“She smiles at everyone,” he added quietly.

“…Right,” Gaz said slowly.

“And?”

Ghost hesitated.

“…Feels like if I talked to her I’d… ruin it.”

That actually made the room pause.

Soap blinked.

“…Simon.”

Ghost shifted again.

“She’s not scared of anyone in this building.”

Laswell nodded slightly.

“That’s true.”

Ghost’s voice dropped another notch.

“…But she’d be scared of me.”

The room went quiet again.

Because suddenly that sounded less like Ghost the Intimidating lieutenant…

…and more like Simon.

Price spoke first.

“She wouldn’t be.”

Ghost didn’t answer.

Gaz smirked.

“You know she brings you coffee sometimes, right?”

Ghost looked at him.

“…What.”

Soap pointed toward the hallway again.

“Leaves it at the desk outside your office. Every Tuesday.”

Ghost stared.

“…That’s from her?”

Price chuckled.

“Took you long enough.”

Soap smiled.

“Oh my God he’s hopeless.”

Gaz leaned back in his chair, grinning.

“Congratulations, Lieutenant.”

Ghost narrowed his eyes.

“For what.”

Gaz gestured toward the door.

“You’re officially both too shy to talk to each other.”

Soap nodded dramatically.

“This is gonna be painful to watch.”

Laswell finally opened her folder again.

“…I’ll give it two weeks before someone locks them in a room together.”

Ghost immediately said,

“Don’t.”

Soap grinned wider.

“Oh we absolutely will.”

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