Something something TF 141 gets a new secretary because their old one decided to finally retire, and you show up.
A sweet little thing, no military experience, all shy smiles and nervous chuckles, punctual and neat.
You take care of their paperwork, their mail, schedule their meeting, bring them coffee, and most importantly it’s not half bad to have a good set of legs and a pretty face to look at.
Price was a right gentleman, a nicer boss than you could’ve ever expected from a military man, and Soap and Gaz really had your confidence going whenever they made their flirtatious quips (which was everyday, really).
Ghost, though? Ghost was exactly what you’d expected after hearing the stories: a stoic, intimidating man who spoke in grunts and monosyllables, and who was, in your opinion, quite rude.
Did the man have no manners? Had his mother not taught him to say ‘thank you’?
You tried making an extra effort with him, your need to be liked overpowering your annoyance towards the lieutenant, because you intended to keep this job; the pay was great, it was a short drive from your apartment and you weren’t going to let a guy who wore a bloody skull balaclava everyday ruin this for you.
So you smiled more, made your good mornings and good afternoons sweeter, same as the tea you’d leave on his desk everyday at 4 pm sharp, and the little squiggly hearts you’d draw on the post it notes on top of his files.
And when Simon’s grunts started mutating into full fledged sentences, and he actually told you a joke, you found yourself grinning, more out of self satisfaction than because of whatever ridiculous pun he’d said in that deep, rumbling voice of his.
For you, it was over, your plan had worked, and now all your bosses liked you, getting rid of that lingering uneasiness in the back of your head.
For Simon, on the other hand? You’d unlocked Pandora's box, if said box contained the lieutenant’s affection (obsession) for you.
It was true, he hadn’t liked you at first: you disrupted the routine, the practised flow of the office, and gave Johnny and Kyle an excuse to be fucking insufferable in their working space instead of only in the shitty pubs where they’d drag him after shifts. He was going to lose his fucking mind if he had to hear another “can’t walk into the office looking that good, darlin’. won’t let me get anything done”.
The worst part was that they weren’t wrong; you were pretty and Simon couldn’t deny that. I mean, what did anyone expect, for him to not shoot a look at your arse in those tight trousers? He was but a man.
But when you started your little routine, it sent him down a spiral. What the fuck was your problem? Why would you draw a bloody heart next to the note that reminded him about his debrief?
What you hadn’t understood, though, was that with a man like Simon Riley, that wasn’t just being nice, it wasn’t getting him to like you. it was an enablement of his ugly heart, something that fed the flames of his desires, because why else would be making him tea? that was practically a wedding vow, love.
So he decided that you were his, that he didn’t need to discuss it with you because you already worried your pretty, little head too much with work and what future husband would he be if he didn’t try to make your life easier?
That included tellin Kyle to fuck off when he flirted with you, giving you a lift when your car broke down (which had absolutely nothing to do with simon messing with its battery), and helping you find your cat when it ran away (the fucking thing had scratched the hell out him when he’d taken it to that alleyway).
The most important part of his duties, however, was watching you, making sure you were safe. Because who was gonna do it if not him? certainly not your, in his assessment, untrustworthy friends.
And your locks were so easy to pick, it had only taken him one try.
So Simon watched as you read a book and bought the same the very next day, he watched you prepare meal after meal with the nutritional value of a brick and made a mental note to make you something healthy when he’d finally cook for you, and he watched as you came out of the shower, completely enthralled.
Unfortunately, he had no way of looking into your bathroom but you’d walk into your room wrapped only in a towel so he wasn’t going to be too picky. Especially not when he got to see you rub that vanilla scented lotion that drove him insane into your soft skin, or drop the fluffy towel to the ground only to cover the delicate swell of your breasts with your pyjama top.
His favourite part, however, was without doubt when you’d lie against your pillows, your fingers dipping below your waistband. His sweet bird, not so innocent after all.
His body would burn as he watched, his hands aching to replace your fingers, his tongue wetting his lips because it couldn’t touch yours.
He held onto every tiny gasp, every quiet whine, knowing that he’d make you sound so much better.
But he was patient and he was going to do things properly, take his time: take you to dinner, buy you gifts, eventually give you the ring he’d already bought. He wasn’t a total wanker, lovie.
So for now he was going to be satisfied with watching you and stealing your panties, offering a gruff “morning, sweetheart” the next day.
