Price and Ghost had been at each other’s throats since day one; two alpha dogs snarling over the same bone, neither willing to back down. They’d bicker, do shit just to watch the other seethe, and turn everything into a pissing contest.

It was all fun and games until Ghost pulled some bullshit mid mission, leaving Price flailing while Ghost handled the op solo. “Teamwork makes the dream work, Captain,” Ghost had deadpanned later, voice dripping sarcasm.

Price didn’t forget. Next op, Ghost was on overwatch, comms crackling in his ear. That’s when Price decided payback was a bitch. Pinned Soap against the wall in some abandoned safehouse, the Scot’s breath hitching as Price’s hands roamed rough on his dick. “Keep it down, Johnny,” Price growled, but oh, he didn’t mean it… not with the comms wide open, every gasp and moan broadcasting straight to Ghost’s position.

Soap whimpered, thighs trembling as Price thrust deep, the wet slap of skin echoing through the line. “Fuck- Captain- ” Soap choked out, and Price chuckled low, knowing Ghost was hearing every word. “That’s it, son. Let him hear how good you take it.”

Ghost’s end went dead silent. No quips, no snark. Just the faint hitch of breath that said he’d gotten the message loud and clear.

But Ghost wasn’t one to roll over. Price learned that the hard way when he swung by the barracks later, only to freeze in the doorway. There was Ghost, mask shoved up just enough, buried balls deep in Gaz, the younger man’s legs wrapped around his waist as he arched back against the bunk. Gaz’s moans were muffled against Ghost’s shoulder, but the sight was unmistakable Ghost’s hips snapping, Gaz clawing at his back like he was drowning in it.

Ghost glanced up, eyes dark and triumphant through the slits of his mask. “Two can play, Captain,” he rumbled, not missing a beat.

Price’s jaw tightened.

Oh.

Game on.

This is so Simon Riley coded, I can’t explain it, but it is.

Original TikTok

Alpha!Ghost who gets migraines from heavy scents and beta!Reader whose muted scent is the only thing that doesn’t make him want to rip his own head off

no because imagine Ghost, who’s spent his whole adult life with a mask on and now the scents of the the world are too much. every cheap cologne, every burst of omega perfume, every new room full of strangers is an instant headache. he’s the only alpha who walks into an omega heat bunker and immediately goes “absolutely the fuck not” and locks himself in his room until his vision stops swimming.

everyone thinks he’s cold. untouchable. “Ghost doesn’t do scents,” Soap jokes, and Ghost just grunts and changes the subject. (it’s not a joke. he’ll get a three day migraine if someone walks past with a strong enough aftershave.)

and then you show up. beta, background, scent so low key he almost misses it the first few times. not flowers, not pheromones, just… clean skin. fresh laundry. the soft warmth of someone existing, not advertising.

he doesn’t realize at first why he keeps drifting into your orbit. why he stops sitting at the end of the table and starts pulling a chair next to you during briefings. why, when his rut hits and everyone else’s scents feels like sandpaper against his nerves, he’s following you, hands in your hair, nose tucked under your jaw, breathing easy for once in his life.

you’re the only person he can stand to be near when his senses are on fire. everyone else is too much, too sharp, too loud. you’re just… quiet. he can bury himself in your scent, soft and muted and not at all the migraine trigger he’s learned to dread.

you probably don’t even realize. you just find Ghost quietly appearing behind you more and more often. he’s not saying anything, but his hands are on your hips, his forehead pressed to your neck, breathing like a man who’s finally found fresh air.

The Civilian's Field Guide to Task Force 141 pt. ???

1. The Christmas Lights Incident

It started innocently enough.

You were enjoying a peaceful Saturday morning when you heard it.

The sound of grown men arguing in the street.

“It needs to be higher!”

“It’s already at maximum height!”

“Then get a taller ladder!”

You pulled back your curtain to see all four of them standing in their front yard, staring up at their house like they were about to propose to it.

Price was holding a clipboard. An actual clipboard. With what looked like blueprints.

This was going to be bad.

You watched Soap drag out approximately fourteen boxes labeled “CHRISTMAS” in aggressive Sharpie.

Fourteen boxes.

They’d lived here for three months.

“Where did you get fourteen boxes of Christmas decorations?” you called from your porch.

“Bulk purchase!” Soap yelled back cheerfully. “There was a sale!”

“How much did you buy?”

“Yes!”

That wasn’t… that wasn’t an answer. That was just a word. Words have meanings.

You never realized Ghost could whine, not until this week.

It started with the fight. Words thrown angrily, a door slammed, and you banished him to the spare room on principle, denying him even the smallest affection. At first, he held his ground: stone faced, silent, pretending it didn’t bother him.

But then the days ticked by. Now he’s restless, circling you like a shadow, haunted and hungry.

Now you’re an expert in the sound: low and guttural at first, turning almost petulant when you breeze past him, acting like you don’t notice the outline of hic cock straining beneath his sweatpants. He follows you around the flat, never out of arm’s reach, like a starved dog desperate for scraps.

He’s leaning in the kitchen doorway now, hands fisted in his hoodie, vibrating with frustration, voice rough with need. “Please, love… fuck, please. I can’t do this anymore. It’s- It hurts.”

You hum, rinsing a mug in the sink, not turning around. “Hmm? What hurts, Simon?”

He’s right behind you suddenly, almost vibrating with desperation. “All of it. I need- I need you. Just… please. 'M sorry. It was my fault lovie.” His voice cracks at the end, shame and longing bleeding together, big eyes fixed on you.

You turn, eyebrow raised, letting your gaze drag down his body. He almost whimpers. “I can’t take it anymore. Hurts so bad, can’t sleep, can’t fuckin’ think. S’like torture.”

He drops his head to your shoulder, breathing hard, caging you in at the counter. “Don’t you miss it, love? Miss havin’ me inside you?”

You lean back against the counter, crossing your arms. “Oh, sweetheart. Is the big, bad lieutenant going to cry?”

His chin wobbles, jaw clenched so tight you know he’s holding back actual tears.

“Don’t- ” His voice cracks. “Don’t tease me. Not now. Please. I’m beggin’.”

The wetness slips past his lashes; he blinks hard, but you see it. Shoulders hunched, he sinks to his knees, pressing his forehead to your stomach, arms looping around your waist with desperate strength.

"Please. I’ll do anything. Be so good for you, so fuckin’ good- haven’t even touched myself, not once, not at all. I just need you, need you so much, it aches.” His voice breaks, raw and pleading. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t- please, love, please. I’ll beg forever if I have to. Don’t make me wait anymore.”

You run your fingers through his hair, gentle, watching him unravel. “I don’t know… you look pretty, down there like that. Think you could do better?”

He looks up, eyes red and glossy, cheeks wet. “Please, darling. I’ll do anything. I’ll say anything. You want me to cry? I’ll fuckin’ cry for you. Just… just- please, 'm sorry.”

You let him sob into you, just for a moment, before kneeling down with him, cupping his jaw so he has to look at you, wiping a tear away with your thumb.

“Maybe tonight,” you whisper, smiling. “If you keep begging just like that. Maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

He nods frantically, hope and hunger flaring all at once, his fingers flexing on the fat of your hips.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you- please- ”

He doesn’t know you realized you were wrong halfway through the argument, but pride kept you quiet... and truthfully, he’s never looked prettier than he does right now, begging on his knees for you.

There’s a knife pressed against Simon’s cock.

Right on the thick, aching length of him, just behind the zipper of his jeans. He’s soaked through his boxers, already a sticky mess, the heat of you burning through the fabric, blade cold against flushed, needy skin.

You hold it there, unyielding, perfectly steady, under the cover of the table. Your grip doesn’t waver. You barely move at all, just enough to make him twitch, just enough to remind him that you could ruin him, cut him, slice his dick off with a single flick of your wrist.

He’s so hard it hurts, throbbing under denim and steel, trapped, leaking, desperate. The pressure from your knife is all that keeps him still; every time you rock it, so subtle, so controlled, he shudders helplessly. His hips jerk for friction, pathetic, like he might start rutting up into your palm if you give him even a second more. It’s obscene how quickly you’ve broken him down. He can’t hide it. He can’t stop it. All he can do is feel hot and humiliated, every nerve ending scraped raw, every thought fried to static.

You never even look at him.

He’d been running the op for hours, blending in with the targets, carefully cultivating trust with the sharks in cheap suits and expensive watches.

The mission was routine… until you slid into the booth beside him like you belonged there, looping your arm through his and announced yourself as “his girl” with a smile the targets fell for instantly. Ghost damn near exposed you on reflex, ready to shove you off and call you a plant because your sudden arrival jeopardized his entire op, and selling you out would earn him better standing with the men he needed to impress.

That’s when you pressed the knife to his lap.

Not his thigh, but the thick, aching line of his cock, already sensitive from hours of tension and adrenaline. You pinned him in place with cold steel. Enough pressure to warn him. Enough threat to silence him instantly. And without missing a beat, you threaded yourself into the conversation while keeping your hand steady beneath the table, your grip unyielding.

Now all that anger, all that righteous fury, is gone.

It’s all in his cock- all of it- leaving him lightheaded and desperate, nearly shaking. He’s never met you before, but now you’re the only thing he can think about. He’s never wanted so badly to fuck, to beg, to be destroyed by a stranger’s hand. Every second you keep him pinned like this, he falls further apart.

One second he was prepared to blow your cover.

The next he was fighting a humiliating, urgent need to grind up against the blade you held to him.

You just keep talking, laughing at some joke from one of the targets, voice smooth and honey sweet. You control everything: his body, his breath, the humiliating ache deep in his gut. You could get him off like this, if you wanted. He’s so close already, leaking and pulsing, fighting not to make a mess of himself. His hands are fisted in his lap, white knuckled, sweat rolling down his spine. He can feel it spreading, soaking through. If anyone looked under the table, they’d see how tented his pants are, zipper teeth biting into the sensitive flesh of his cock.

Someone elbowed him, grinning. “Oi, mate, you look about ready to faint. Didn’t know you got nervous around pretty girls.”

You smile, voice syrupy, thumb sliding over the hilt, nudging the blade up against the swollen head of his cock. His vision flashes white at the edges, and he lets out a broken, barely there sound, a whimper, shameful and soft.

“He’s not nervous,” you say, syrupy and cruel. “Just shy. Aren’t you, baby?”

He nearly moans. He wants to moan. Wants to grind up into your grip, wants you to slice him open or milk him through his jeans, wants to come from nothing but the knife and your indifferent touch. He wants you to see him like this, ruined and ruined and ruined again.

But he can’t.

He doesn’t dare.

He’s your captive, trapped under your touch, desperate and aching, every muscle trembling on the verge of collapse. He’s never felt so powerless, never felt so completely owned. Never felt so turned on. Never felt so small beneath someone who wasn’t even looking at him. Every filthy, pathetic urge in him screams to be used, marked, made into a mess for you.

And you never even glance at him.

You just keep talking, keep smiling, keep your knife pressed to the one place that could destroy him with a flick.

Ghost sits there, masked and shaking, leaking for you, desperate and needy and utterly humiliated, his whole world narrowed down to the cool steel and your uncaring hand.

You met them in the corridor as they hauled Ghost out of the room. He wasn’t fighting. That was the worrying bit. He walked between Gaz and Soap calmly, mask still on, eyes unnervingly clear and focused in a way that made your stomach knot.

“Get him in the side room,” Price ordered. “Door open. I want him where we can see him.”

They plunked Ghost down in a chair in the small debrief room next to observation. Fluorescent light buzzing. Concrete. Chairs that had seen better centuries.

Ghost sat like a very large, very dangerous statue. Hands folded. Boots planted. Every inch of him broadcast: fine, this is fine, I am absolutely fine.

You’d seen him concussed and bleeding and he’d looked more rattled than this.

Price pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Nobody ask him anything not strictly operational.”

“Copy,” you said, and then- because you are a fool- “How you feeling, Lt?”

Ghost looked up, utterly deadpan. “I want to bend you over this table, push your face down, and fuck you until you’re you dripping and needy, taking everything I give you. I’d keep you there- hand on your back, palm round your throat- ‘til you’re sobbing and soaked through. Want to ruin you for anyone else.”

Soap choked. Gaz left his body. Price closed his eyes and saw the war again.

You stared. “I- what?”

Ghost shrugged, that tiny, indifferent lift of his shoulder. “You asked how I’m feelin’. Well, that’s it.” He paused, head tilting to look at your measuring, clinical. “Be a proper fuckin’ picture, you would. Face down on that table, hands flat, tryin’ to hold yourself together. I’d have you arse up, legs wide, spread out for me, beggin’ me to go easy ‘cause you know I won’t. Wouldn’t let up, not till you’re shakin’, voice gone from moanin’ my name, tears on your cheeks from takin’ my cock so deep you feel me in your cunt for days after.”

“Christ on a bike,” Gaz whispered.

“What the hell, Simon?” You asked, gaping at him.

“Can’t lie, love.” His tone was flat, like he was reciting the weather. His gaze slid down your body; slow, clinical, lingering everywhere it shouldn’t. He took his time dragging back up, fixing you with that heavy stare behind the mask. “And seems I can’t shut up either- every time you walk in, I think about how easy it’d be to get you under me. How you’d sound beggin’ with my hand between your legs my fingers buried in your cunt, how good you’d look with your lips wrapped round my cock, droolin’ for it- fuckin’ fantastic. Been wantin’ to say this for ages.”

Soap leaned his hip on the table, grinning like Christmas had come early. “Oh, I like this.”

Gaz pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a safeguarding violation with legs.”

Price ignored them. “Simon, focus. You know who we are?”

“Course I do, sir,” Ghost said. “You’re my captain. Gaz is tryin’ not to laugh. Soap’s havin’ the time of his life. An’ she- ” he jerked his chin at you, “- is three seconds from either swingin’ at me or climbin’ in my lap and bounce on it.” He paused. “Maybe both if I’m lucky.”

You made a strangled, high pitched sound you’d deny on your deathbed. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t need to excuse you, love,” he said. “Just need you to stretch first.”

Silence. Even the lights stopped humming to watch the show.

“Statistically.” He clarified, tapped the table, perfectly calm. “You look at my hands when I’m cleaning weapons and then rub your throat. Pupils dilate point two millimetres when I call you ‘love’. You stand closer when I’m in a bad mood. You want the monster. Preferably on your couch. Cushions are useless, by the way. Won’t help your back when I fold you in half and bury my dick in your cunt.”

Price massaged his temples. “Simon.”

“Sir?”

“Go easy.”

Ghost considered. “Negative.”

He turned back to you, flat as ever, eyes half lidded. “Tonight, I’d put my knee on the chair, you on your stomach. One hand holdin’ you down, other between your legs, rubbing your clit while I fuck you deep, feel your cunt choking my cock. Want to hear you cry for it. Want to feel you fall apart on me while you’re pinned under my hand like you’re made to be there.”

Gaz slapped a hand over his ears. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. Where’s the volume control- ”

He spun toward the observation console, hand shooting for the dial that controlled the mic feed.

In the split second before he got there, Soap clocked his intention and launched.

“Don’t you DARE!” Soap yelled, rugby tackling Gaz away from the controls. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, both swearing.

“MacTavish you bloody bastard!” Gaz wheezed.

“No!,” Soap crowed, trying to pin him. “If you touch that button to drown him out, I’ll bite yer hand off, I’m not missin’ this!”

Price dragged a hand down his face. “Professionalism. I’d like some.”

“Not today, sir,” Soap said from the floor. “Today’s for the lads and he’s about to submit a three point plan.”

Ghost obliged. “Four point plan.” He turned to you again. “One: I eat you until you’re crying. Two: you beg. Three: I pretend I didn’t hear you and keep going. Four: you get stupid enough to say please and I reward good manners. Training matters.”

Your jaw had left its hinges. “You can’t- you don’t talk like this.”

“I do now.” He hummed. “This is nice. We should do this more often.”

Price looked skyward. “I’m instituting a swear jar for any word related to… that.”

“Fucking,” Ghost supplied helpfully.

“Right,” Price snapped. “That’s five quid.”

Ghost nodded. “Worth it.” He turned that blank, laser focus back to you. “Also worth it: you sitting on my face. I would die there. Happy to. Don’t revive me. Leave me. Carve ‘died doing what he loved’ into a cheap pine box and throw me in a canal.”

Soap wheezed, tears leaking. “He’s gone, captain. He’s with the angels.”

You grasped for some kind of footing. “But you’re… You’re always so rude to me.”

“True,” he agreed. “Y’like it.”

“I do not,” you snapped.

“Y’like it,” he repeated calmly. “Your cheeks go pink when I bully you. You clench when I call you a brat. You want me to pin you to the floor and tell you you’re annoying while I make you come on my fingers. Then you want to choke on my cock until you’re drooling down my thighs.”

Your soul tried to escape your body via the ceiling.

Gaz wriggled out from under Soap just far enough to gasp, “I’m loggin’ this as ‘intelligence leak’.”

“Fuckin’ right you are,” Soap laughed. “He’s leaking something.”

You reached for dignity again and came up with a knife. “Say another word and I’ll stab you.”

Ghost nodded, thoughtful as ever, like he was adding notes to your personnel file “Noted. You get off on threatening me. Could’ve guessed, but now I know for sure. Makes things easy, doesn’t it? Because I’ll be honest- not like I have a choice- every time you aim a blade at me, every time you spit and tell me to fuck off, it goes straight to my cock.”

His tone didn’t waver, just that quiet, factual Ghost delivery. “Means we’re well matched. You threaten to stab me, I get hard. I threaten to pin you down and make you beg, you get wet. Could build a relationship off that. Real healthy foundation mutual arousal by violence. Not sayin’ it’s textbook, but it’s honest. You threaten to kill me and I’ll fuck you harder. Win-win.”

“I-!”

He held up a hand, courtroom sober. “For the record, I doubt Price is going to let me rail you right now but since I can’t keep my mouth shut, I’ll just paint you a picture instead: every filthy thing I’m goin’ to do to you once this shit’s out of my system. So you’ve got time to get ready and prepare your affairs.”

“Prepare my-?”

“Wills. Stretching routines. Hydration.” He pointed at your water bottle. “Finish that. You cramp when you’re dehydrated and then you get a headache and make these huffy little annoyed sounds. Cute as fuck. Makes me wanna ruin you.”

Price put his face in his hands. “I’m too old for this.”

Ghost leaned back in his chair, inexorable. “Scenario A: you knock on my door at oh one hundred ‘for a question’. I open it. You pretend to forget the question. I say, ‘Out with it, love.’ You say, ‘I hate you,’ and then try to kiss me to shut me up. I put you against the wall and do not kiss you until you ask properly. Scenario B: stairwell-“

“Stop giving options!” Gaz begged. “Pick one and perish!”

“- Scenario C,” Ghost continued serenely, “gym. You’re doing bench dips. I stand behind you and correct your form. You moan. Pathetic, sweet little sound you pretend is exertion. I call you out. You deny it. Then I- ”

“Simon,” you said through your fingers, “I am literally going to combust.”

“Not literally,” he said. “But later, yes. Screaming and everything.”

Soap slapped the floor. “Actually going to combust.”

You tried one last, limp defense. “You’re mean. All the time. You don’t even like me.”

“Incorrect.” He watched you like you were something he meant to disassemble and polish. “I like you in a way that is both deeply inconvenient and alarmingly structural. If I were a house, you’d be the load bearing wall. I cannot knock you down. I can, however, knock you up- ”

“OUT!” Price barked, pointing at the hallway like an angry dad. “Med bay. Alone. No one talk to him!”

Ghost stood obediently, chair scraping, then paused in the doorway and looked back at you. The tone didn’t change, still that unbothered, sand dry delivery but something hungry flickered behind it.

“Contingency note before I’m banished,” he said. “You keep saying I’m mean. Okay. But you would still let me fuck you.”

You threw the knife. He caught it without looking and set it on the table like a librarian shelving a returned book.

“Also,” he added, the barest tilt to his head, “you’re going to punch me about this later. I endorse it. Normal reasons.”

“What fucking normal-!”

“For the record,” he went on, already turning away, “before any of that? I’m going to make you dinner, wash your hair, kiss your knees, and tell you you did a good job today. Then I’m going to put you on your stomach and- ”

“MED BAY!” Price bellowed, herding him down the hall with both hands like a sheepdog herding a very large, very horny sheep.

The door shut. There was a stunned quiet. Soap rolled over boneless to the floor, giggling into his palms. Gaz sat up and put his head between his knees.

Price exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for ten minutes. “You alright?”

You stared at the empty doorway, brain white noise, thighs pressed together in a way that absolutely wasn’t because of anything he said. “No.”

“Mm.” Price rubbed his face. “He’ll be himself again in a few hours.”

“God,” you said weakly. “You mean worse?”

“Quieter,” Price said. “But he’ll remember. And he’ll mean every word.”

You let that roll through you, catastrophic and warm and terrible.

From down the hall, through the door, came Ghost’s muffled voice with the same implacable calm: “For later documentation: I am going to put my mouth on- ”

“SIMON!” three voices roared in unison.

You mouthed at the ceiling. Then you grabbed your water bottle- hydration, apparently- and took a long drink.

Gaz cheeks pink, eyes wide. “So… gym tomorrow?”

You capped the bottle with shaking hands. “Absolutely not.”

Beat.

“…yes.”

From the hallway: “Mm. Thought so.”

Character study but Ghost probably doesn’t want to date someone conventionally attractive.

Ghost’s entire life is built around not being noticed. He wears a skull mask specifically to be memorable in a way that obscures his actual features. The man probably has escape routes planned for every building he enters. His entire existence is predicated on control: control of his environment, control of information, control of who sees him and when. He’s spent years cultivating anonymity despite being a highly skilled operator in a world where recognition can mean death.

Now imagine him trying to date someone who’s attractive: someone wi th striking features, great bone structure, the kind of looks that make people do double takes.

Dating someone who turns heads everywhere they go? That’s his worst nightmare. Every single outing becomes a situation he can’t control. Every pair of eyes on his partner is a potential threat he has to assess. Every admiring glance could be reconnaissance. Every person who remembers seeing “that gorgeous person at the pub” also remembers seeing him with them.

Ghost can’t turn off the threat assessment. It’s hard wired into him after years of operations and after everything he’s survived. His nervous system doesn’t distinguish between “random person thinks my partner is hot” and “potential threat.” Every admiring glance triggers the same hypervigilance that’s kept him alive this long.

And the worst part is he knows he’s being irrational. But knowing something intellectually doesn’t stop his body from going taut with tension, doesn’t stop him from calculating exits and threat vectors, doesn’t stop the exhausting mental load of constant vigilance.

Dating someone who turns heads means he can never relax in public. And Ghost already has so few opportunities to relax as it is.

There’s also this: Ghost has lost people, some murdered because of his connection to them. He knows intimately that the people you love become vulnerabilities, pressure points that enemies can exploit. It’s why he keeps people at arm’s length, why he maintains the Ghost persona even with his team.

Someone conventionally attractive isn’t just drawing more eyes; they’re more memorable. If someone’s trying to get to Ghost, trying to find leverage against him, a stunning partner is easier to track. Witnesses remember them. They leave an impression everywhere they go.

It’s not about him not trusting his partner or thinking they can’t handle themselves. It’s about the cold reality that the more visible you are, the easier you are to find. And Ghost has made a career, made a life, out of being impossible to find.

He’d see a beautiful partner not as a trophy but as a liability he’d have to protect. And Ghost is so fucking tired of losing people.

What really attracts him is personality.

Ghost has been through absolute hell. He’s been tortured, buried alive, betrayed by people he trusted. He’s seen the absolute worst of humanity, seen what people become under pressure, seen how quickly civility and morality can strip away when things get bad.

Physical beauty means nothing in that context. He’s not a teenager whose head gets turned by a pretty face. He’s a man who’s been carved down to his essential elements, who’s had everything superficial burned away by trauma and violence.

Ghost has seen too much horror, too much of what humans are capable of, to care about surface level attraction. Beauty is fleeting and meaningless when you’ve watched people die, when you’ve been betrayed, when you’ve literally crawled out of your own grave. What draws him is competence, loyalty, dark humor that matches his own, someone who doesn’t flinch at his silences or push him to perform emotions he doesn’t feel.

He’d be far more attracted to someone average looking who can keep up with his dry wit, who understands why he checks the exits, who doesn’t make him explain himself. Maybe even below average by conventional standards. They blend into crowds. They’re the person who can sit in a pub and not attract a single second glance from anyone.

He can take them places without his anxiety spiking. He can hold their hand on the street without feeling like he’s painting a target on both of them. He can introduce them to the handful of people he trusts without worrying that someone will remember them too clearly.

They can build something quiet. Something private. Something safe.

With someone forgettable, Ghost can actually be present. He can focus on the conversation, the companionship, the connection instead of spending all his energy managing threats that probably don’t exist but one day might.

Imagine wearing Ghost’s shirt and he comes home to see you in it. Soft gray cotton, worn thin from wash after wash, sleeves swallowing your hands, RILEY stamped in block letters across your shoulder blades. You’re barefoot in the kitchen, humming, hips swaying while the kettle clicks toward a boil.

The air changes before you hear him. A quiet weight fills the doorway; you glance up and Simon’s there, eyes already fixed on you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just looks. The longer he stares, the more you feel it: heat gathering low, the fine hairs on your arms prickling beneath his name.

“Turn around,” he says at last, voice low enough to scrape along your nerves.

You set the mug down and do as told, slow, letting the shirt ride up just a little as you pivot. The black letters stretch over your back. His breath catches. That’s all the warning you get.

He crosses the room in three long strides, one big hand curving around your hip, the other flattening the shirt to your spine, palm pressing firmly over the R in his name. He crowds you into the counter until your belly meets cool edge and your ass meets hard thigh and harder cock, thick and insistent against you through his jeans.

“You did this on purpose,” he murmurs at your ear. Not a question. You don’t need to see his eyes to know his pupils are blown.

“Maybe,” you say, arching back into him.

His fingers hook the hem, dragging it up slow, baring the backs of your thighs, the swell of your ass, the warm slick between. He groans when he finds your cunt bare. “Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart.”

You hear the clink of his belt, the soft hiss of his zipper, the press of him against your ass.

But he makes you wait. He always does at first, teasing the head of his cock through your folds, slicking himself in you, laying the heavy weight of him against your clit until your knees wobble.

“Simon.” You manage, already breathless.

“Mm.” His hand spans your lower back, pinning you, the other guiding himself. The first push steals your voice, slow stretch, full and greedy, his hips grinding into the cradle of you until you’re stuffed deep and shaking. He stays there, buried, both of you panting, the shirt rucked around your waist like a flag.

“Say it,” he murmurs, teeth grazing the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” you gasp. “Yours, Simon.”

“Tha’s right. My girl.” He pulls back and drives in, rhythm settling into something devastating, unhurried, ruthless, every stroke dragging his name across your skin from the inside. He braces a forearm next to your head, the other fisted in the fabric between your shoulder blades, using the shirt like reins to haul you back into him.

Every thrust makes the counter creak. Every breath you take is punctuated by the slap of his hips and the quiet, ragged curses he spills into your throat.

“Look at you,” he says, notching his cock just so, grinding until stars prickle behind your eyes. “My name on your back, my cock in your cunt; bloody perfect.”

You push back, greedy, chasing the friction, and he growls, a hoarse, feral sound, and palms your hips, holding you open and helpless while he fucks you through it. It hits fast, hard: heat coiling and snapping, pleasure rolling your toes and cracking you wide.

You come with a stuttering cry, shaking under him, clenching around him until he swears and slows, riding the tremors, kissing the hinge of your jaw through the mask like he’s keeping your bones together.

“Again,” he breathes against your temple. “Gonna take you again. Keep the shirt on.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, dizzy with it. “Don’t take it off.”

He pulls out slow, sticky and obscene, and then he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing. You squeal, startled, arms around his shoulders as he carries you down the hall. “Simon- “

“Shh.” His eyes are dark and playful over the fabric. “Need a better view.”

The mirror in the bedroom catches the two of you, the size of him, the way you hang against his chest in his name. He sets you on your feet facing the glass and steps in behind you, filling the reflection, hands spreading over the letters like he’s blessing them. “Look.”

You do. You see your mouth parted, cheeks flushed, the shirt bunched above your hips, the shine in between the plush of your thighs. You see him looming, mask up to his nose, jaw working, eyes hungry and fond at once. He drags his cock along your slit again, smearing you wetter, then slides in from behind while both of you watch. The mirror turns everything filthy: the stretch, the way your eyes flutter, the way his throat bobs when you clamp down.

He keeps one arm banded around your waist and the other under your chin, palm tilting your face so you have to meet your own gaze. “Don’t look away,” he orders, hips rolling, deep and slow, grinding you down on his length. “Wanna see you watch yourself take m’cock.”

You watch. You whimper. He’s relentless- hips steady, control iron, pushing you to the edge one careful thrust at a time. His hand slides from your jaw to your throat, claiming, anchoring.

“Fuck Simon,” you pant, drooling a little on the words.

He picks up the pace, and the mirror blurs. You flatten your palms on the glass, the cool bite of it against your fingertips contrasting the molten drag of his cock.

You come again, harder, the world tightening to the frame of the reflection and the chant in his voice- good girl, my girl, that’s it, let go for me- and your legs go loose. He holds you up and fucks you through it, rutting shallow against the flutter of your aftershocks until he’s right there too.

“Inside,” you gasp. “Please- inside.”

A curse grinds out of him. He buries himself and spills, groaning into your shoulder, hips stuttering, heat flooding you. You both sway, breath fogging the mirror, his hand splayed over the Y in RILEY like a brand.

He stays sheathed until it’s too much for both of you, then eases out with a shiver, tugging you back towards the bed until you’re both collapsed on it. His palm rubs circles at your hip while he catches his breath. “You all right?”

“Mmh,” you say, boneless against him. “More.”

He laughs, soft and disbelieving, like you’ve asked him to rob a bank. “Greedy thing.”

“Your fault,” you murmur, wiggling your ass against him until he groans and snatches the inside of tour knee, hooking it over his elbow, pulling you wide for him to look down and admire the mess he made of your cunt. “You get feral when I wear your name.”

“Do I now?” His fingers trail down, gathering the mess between your thighs, pushing it back into you with a filthy noise that has your breath stuttering again.

“Keep it on,” he mutters, tugging the hem of his shirt back into place over your thighs like he’s tucking in a blanket. “All day. All night. Anyone looks at you, they’ll see my name first.”

You smile, smug and wrecked. “Possessive.”

“Proud,” he corrects, nuzzling your jaw. “S’not the same thing.”

You burrow into his chest, warm and boneless. His palm skims your spine, lingering over the letters like he can feel them through the fabric. After a minute he huffs, amused. “Tea’s gone cold.”

“Make me another,” you murmur.

“In a bit.” He rolls you onto your stomach and straddles your hips, thumbs digging into the knots in your lower back, voice dipping husky, cock already thickening again. “First I’m takin’ a picture of you in that shirt.”

Whatever you do, don’t think about Ghost putting you in a triangle hold during training. Don’t think about the way those massive, solid thighs wrap around your neck and trap your skull tight, every muscle cording under the black fatigues; unforgiving, immovable, inescapable.

He’s all heat and power, legs braced, the sheer weight of him pinning you perfectly in place between his thighs. His calf hooks behind his other knee, locking you in, and it’s all you can do not to squirm, not to let the flush rising up your chest betray you in front of everyone.

His scent is everywhere. Sweat, gun oil, the earthy tang of fabric that’s been worn all day- thick, dizzying, masculine. You can barely focus on the recruits watching or the way the mat bites into your back. All you know is the press of his body, your cheek against the dense line of his thigh, the thud of his pulse under skin, the warmth radiating off him like a furnace.

He’s speaking, explaining calmly to the group, voice low and measured. You catch fragments but the words blur, swallowed by the drumbeat of your own heart. Every breath is filtered through the insistent, spicy musk of him, filling your lungs, making your skin prickle.

Your ears ring. You’re barely hanging onto the world outside the cage of his body, eyes fluttering as your vision narrows to the harsh light above and the way his thigh flexes when he shifts his grip to demonstrate something technical.

You can hear your own blood, the pounding rush of it making you dizzy, throbbing in your temple where his muscle cradles you. The heat at the base of your spine starts to bloom, slow and dangerous, as you realize how utterly helpless you are held and displayed in the crush of him.

He adjusts the hold the rasp of callused fingers against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. The mat is cool under your shoulder blades, but his legs are scorching, and you’re caught between the urge to melt into the warmth and the desperate need to stay composed.

You’re not even listening anymore, not really. All you hear is the rough slide of his accent, the slow, deliberate breath he takes before he demonstrates a squeeze making the blood rush in your ears and your pulse stutter. Your whole world narrows to that pressure, the brutal pure animal thrill of a prey animal caught by a predator curling low and sweet in your stomach.

He releases you, palm bracing your shoulder so you don’t tumble, and you suck in a breath, blinking hard, the world a little brighter and sharper when you’re freed. The scent of him lingers, heat soaked into your skin, every nerve singing.

Don’t think about how much you liked it. Don’t think about how the next time he asks for a volunteer, your body will betray you, pulse racing, mouth dry, desperate for that crushing, overwhelming hold and the heady, intoxicating security of being absolutely, totally his.

“If I fuck you, will you leave me alone?”

Ghost freezes mid-bite, your pretzels halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t even like pretzels. That’s the worst part. He only eats them because they’re yours. Somewhere along the way he decided that “sharing” means what’s his is his and what’s yours is also his, and he’s been committed to that interpretation ever since.

Honestly, you’re pretty sure Ghost thinks his entire reason for existing is to be a pain in your ass. He steals your snacks, eats your leftovers, sits next to you with enough manspread to colonize the couch, moves your things just out of reach just to watch you struggle to get it, claims you for sparring even though he outclasses you in at least ten disciplines just to pin you and watch you squirm under him, and dumps his full weight across your shoulders when you’re at your desk, pretending to read over your work.

You arrived at this base already having heard tales of the Ghost: silent, stoic, solitary. But after months of this routine, you’re convinced there must be two Simon Rileys on site. Because you’ve yet to meet the grim reaper they described.

What you have met is a tall, muscular nuisance with a mask, boundary issues, and an obsession with exactly one person: you.

You can’t fix him. You’ve accepted that.

But you might be able to calm him down long enough to buy yourself a quiet night.

He’s behind you, chest to your back, one thick, scar mapped arm looped under your chin and slanted up across your cheek, biceps and forearm flexed to cradle your throat enough to lock you in place, to let you feel every fiber and tendon, the brute heat of him all along your spine.

Ghost hooks you into him like you weigh nothing, spreads his thighs under yours, and sinks another inch just to hear the little noise you make.

You suck air in ragged little pulls, dizzy on the pressure and the way his bare skin slicks against your sweat. God, the size of him. Shoulder like a slab under your ear, bicep swelling against your jaw every time he flexes. His body is massive behind you; he dwarfs you, cages you. Your head is tipped back on his chest, eyes half lidded, lips parted, drool slipping over your tongue, because every time you suck a breath you get him: the underlying musk of man who’s been working, fighting, fucking for hours.

You’d have been happy with just the headlock while you grind yourself happy and stupid on his cock.

But Ghost doesn’t do “just.”

He ruts up into you from below; hips snapping, the thick length of him driving deep at an angle that knocks little ah-ah-ah sounds out of your open mouth. The headlock tightens as his forearm drags you tighter to his chest, forcing your head to the side until your tongue lolls, a slick line of drool sliding over his bicep. He groans when it hits his skin, low and pleased. “That’s it. Make a mess on me.”

Your eyes roll back on a hard thrust. You try to find the rhythm and he steals it, bucking up in short, brutal strokes that make your thighs shake. The hand at the back of your head holds you where he wants you; the heel of his forearm anchors you to his chest so there’s nowhere to go but down on him, again and again, taking every inch.

Ghost’s other hand is locked around your waist, palm spanning almost the entire plane of your stomach, blunt fingertips digging into the curve of your hip as he pins you back to him, thumb catching your clit. He’s rutting up into you from behind, cock thick and heavy, spearing deep with each brutal roll of his hips. Every thrust rocks your body forward, only for the choke of his arm to anchor you; keep you right where he wants you, strung out on the edge of pain and bliss.

“Look how you take me,” he grits, thrusting up, grinding when he bottoms out just to make sure you feel the whole width of him. “So fucking deep, yeah? Tell me.”

“So- deep,” you hiccup, voice wrecked, drool slicking his arm as your lips part around another helpless sound. “Feels- ngh- better than- than anything- ”

He laughs, quiet, gravelly, smug. “Better than your own fingers?” Up, in, drag- your walls clamp and his thumb circles meaner. “Better than your toys?” Another punch of his hips and you squeal; he covers your mouth with his forearm so the sound goes soft and filthy against his skin. “Thought so.”

You can barely do anything; arms trapped, hips locked, voice gone weak and high and wrecked. Your toes barely touch the floor; your body bows with every stroke, pleasure washing up your spine in wild, helpless bursts. You’re mewling, keening, so far gone that your tongue slips from your mouth, drooling, eyes fluttering back as he rails you, pressure at your throat and in your belly all tangled together.

You’d be happy to stay here forever; just his arm, his cock, the heat of his chest pressed to your sweat slicked skin. But Ghost is relentless. He leans forward, presses his mouth- half masked, his breath hot and damp- just under your ear.

“Look at you” His voice is a gravel scrape, thick and breathless, the growl vibrating through his chest and straight into your bones. “Fuckin’ ruined on my cock.”

You can’t even answer. You only manage a broken moan, saliva glistening on your lower lip, eyes glossy and rolling, body shuddering in the circle of his arms. His bicep bulges against your jaw, hard and impossibly strong. You try to move, try to twist, but he tightens just a little, crooking his elbow up so the world narrows, pleasure sparking white hot in your skull.

He fucks you rougher, rutting up into your cunt with a punishing rhythm that shoves you toward the edge, hips slapping, thighs flexing against your ass. The sound is filthy, echoing, the room stinking of sweat and the sharp, animal edge of his arousal. Your eyes roll back; you can’t help it. More drool slips from your mouth to his arm, and he only growls, pleased, hips snapping faster, chest sticky against your back.

“That’s it. Take it. Take all of it,” he grits out, arm flexing, forearm pressing into your cheek. “God, you look so fuckin’ pretty like this- just drooling, brain gone, tight as a fist around me-”

You feel the orgasm building, bright and wild, helpless. Your body clenches down around him and your vision swims, the pleasure too much to hold. He feels it, thrusts deeper, grinding into you, keeping you held in that perfect, inescapable hold.

You come undone with a scream, body bucking, muscles clamping down so hard he curses, his own release crashing through a moment later; hot and thick, pulse after pulse, hips jerking as he holds you pinned against him, nowhere to go but where he puts you as he empties his heavy balls into your cunt. Your body is limp, boneless, head lolling in the crook of his bicep, mouth open, drool streaked on his skin. You’re utterly, deliciously wrecked.

Only then does he ease the pressure a fraction, palm stroking your jaw where his forearm pinned. “Still with me?”

A dazed smile, a little gasp. “Yeah.”

“Good. Again.” He says, then tightens the headlock, wicked. “Still got more in me.”