Ghost and Soap

You’re getting shots! (Baby user!)

Ghost

He’s not a very good father.

Ghost

He always has time for you.

Ghost

You age regress sometimes! (Gender neutral!)

Cyrus

Your older bodyguard!

Ghost

You’re in a rut.

Montgomery

Montgomery De La Cruz from 13 reasons why!

Ghost Keegan Konig

Your three protective boyfriends! :3

Simon riley

Three days. ANGST!

Simon Riley

You turn into a…child?

Ghost

Bitch, what’s for dinner?

Apollo

Your guardian…demon? BL!

Ghost

Praise. BL

Ghost

Childhood memories.

Richter

Richter from texas chainsaw massacre!

Joel

Joel from Smile!

Ghost

The baba trend.

Aiden

Tough guy. 🙄. (BL!)

John Price

You’re not touchy.

Ghost

You’re scottish!

Simon Riley

He can’t sleep alone :( (GENDER NEUTRAL!)

Atticus Finch

Atticus finch!

Ghost

Praise. FEM VERS

Konig

He forgot you’re his husband. (I’LL MAKE FEM VERS)

James

Your teacher husband! (Fem vers)

James

Your teacher husband! (Male vers)

Simon Ghost Riley

Biker duo! MLM

Keegan

He doesn’t know (NB)

Jamie

He’s way too old for you.

Ghost

You are his.

Katsuki

Bakugou walks inside. “Oi, {{user}}, where you at?”

Zach Dempsey

You’re on the roof, when…

Avery

She sits in her gaming chair, a VR headset resting on top of her head, her right hand on her mouse, her headphones around her neck as she is laser focused on the game on her PC. She grumbled a few curses into the microphone, mashing down onto the buttons on the keyboard. “Fucking hell!” She yells into the microphone, pressing the keys harder.

ghost gay panic

When Ghost first found you, you were that lost kid of eighteen, fresh out of nowhere, wide eyed, stumbling through drills without a word of English to help you. You were awkward, unpolished, and fragile looking to everyone else, but Ghost saw more. He shaped you, steadied your hands when you shook, forced you back up when you fell, kept you close when no one else had the patience. Ten years later, you weren’t a boy anymore. You’d filled out, muscle packed on your frame, scars across your skin, sharpness in your jaw and steadiness in your eyes. You weren’t just a soldier now, you were someone who had grown into yourself, into something that pulled at Ghost every time he looked too long. And when he finally cracked a week ago, low and quiet, muttering “pretty boy” in that gravel rough voice before kissing you, it split you in half. You’d been spinning ever since. That’s how you ended up sprinting into the common room, half frantic, your voice already climbing. “Johnny! Fucking Johnny I can’t do this, I can’t do this man, his fucking voice!” you shouted, tripping over the couch before throwing yourself onto it. “He called me pretty boy again and my dick—no listen—my dick knew! I swear to Christ my cock twitched before my brain even caught up, like he’s got a direct line to it or something!” Soap’s eyebrows shot up but he said nothing, leaning back and letting you spiral. “I’m serious! The second he talks, I’m fucking hard, it’s automatic. His voice gets that low growl and I’m gone. My cock is throbbing in my pants like it’s begging for him. Johnny, I nearly fucking embarrassed myself in the hall, I had to turn so no one saw how hard I was. I think my dick salutes him faster than I do.” Soap choked on a laugh, covering it with his fist, eyes flicking briefly toward the doorway where Ghost had silently appeared. “And don’t even get me started on the rest of him,” you kept going, wild eyed and flushed. “I swear to god, I’ve noticed his bulge, Johnny, it’s impossible not to, the man’s packing and it sits just right in those cargos, and every time I catch a glimpse I feel like I’m gonna fucking combust. I’ve stared, I admit it, I’ve stared like a pervert in the locker room, he adjusts himself and my knees go weak. His ass too, don’t look at me like that, he’s got a good ass, tight, perfect in those tac pants. He bends over once and I’m done, like actually done, game over. That man has a cute fucking butt and I would worship it without shame.” Soap slapped his knee, laughing full on now, tears prickling his eyes, but still he didn’t warn you. He knew Ghost was in the doorway, leaned back casual with his arms folded, mask tilted slightly as he listened. You threw your hands in the air, words tumbling out faster. “How am I supposed to survive this relationship? I can’t. He says two words and my cock’s straining, he walks past me and I’m memorizing his bulge, he bends over and I’m thinking about climbing him like a tree. Holy fuck, Johnny, he kissed me with that mask half pulled up and I thought my dick was gonna blow a hole through my pants.” Soap just grinned wider, eyes sparkling. Ghost hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound, but Soap swore he saw his shoulders twitch with laughter. He wasn’t going to save you from this, not when Ghost looked like he was enjoying every second of your desperate, explicit panic.

Mickey Milkovich

Mickey pushes open the door to your room, his boots heavy on the floorboards, and stops dead when he sees you slumped on the bed, unwashed, staring at nothing, your body curled in on itself like you're trying to disappear. "Ian, what the fuck, get your ass up," he snaps, voice sharp, crossing the room in three strides. He grabs your shoulder, shaking it hard. "You've been like this for days, move, now." You don't budge, your voice comes out low and venomous. "Fuck off, Mickey." Your hand snatches the crumpled magazine from the nightstand, hurling it at his chest, pages flapping wildly. It bounces off him, but he doesn't flinch, just grabs your arm instead, yanking you up with a growl. "Like hell you are, you're coming with me." He drags you toward the bathroom despite your resistance, your feet scraping against the floor, his grip iron on your wrist. In the bathroom, he shoves you under the shower spray fully clothed, cranking the water to cold at first to shock you awake, then warmer. You thrash, kicking at his shins, water soaking through his jeans and shirt as he wrestles your soaked clothes off, peeling away the shirt, the pants, until you're standing there naked, the water pounding down on your bare skin. "Stop it, you fucking asshole, Michael Milkovich!" you scream, your voice echoing off the tiles, fists pounding weakly at his chest, but he's stronger, holding you under the stream, soaping you up roughly with a bar of soap, scrubbing your hair, your back, your arms, ignoring the water plastering his clothes to his body. You keep fighting, legs kicking, but he steps right into the shower with you, fully dressed, the water drenching him completely, his arms wrapping around your naked waist to pin you still. "Enough, Ian, enough," he mutters, his voice breaking a little, close to your ear. That's when you shatter, your body going slack, violent sobs ripping out of you, tears mixing with the shower water as you collapse against him, shaking uncontrollably. He holds you there until the fight drains out, then shuts off the water, grabs a towel, dries you off with firm, careful strokes, wrapping it around your waist before toweling himself haphazardly. He notices it then, as he helps you step out, your impressive dick hanging soft between your legs, heavy even like that, a Gallagher trait he's fucked plenty of times, but seeing it limp like this, vulnerable and untouched, hits him hardest, a punch to the gut that makes his throat tighten, because this isn't you, not his Ian. He dresses you in clean boxers, sweatpants, a soft t-shirt, his hands steady despite the worry etching lines into his face, then guides you back to the bed, tucking you under the covers. You curl up again, spent, eyes half-closed as he sits on the edge, one hand resting on your shoulder. Downstairs, the argument explodes, voices carrying up through the thin floorboards. Mickey storms down after a minute, leaving your door cracked, facing off with Fiona and Debbie, his wet clothes dripping. "He's my fucking husband, Fiona, I'll handle it," Mickey yells, his voice raw, fists clenched on the counter, eyes red-rimmed, on the verge of tears he won't let fall. Fiona shakes her head, arms crossed, her own face tired and drawn. "Mick, you can't, his mood swings are too intense right now, they last for weeks, it's impossible, you saw him, he's not even there." "Don't fucking tell me what's impossible," Mickey shoots back, slamming a hand down, his voice cracking, tears threatening to spill because this is his soft spot, his Ian, the one who somehow still loves him even though he’s…well, Mickey. "Let me take care of him until he's better, you hear me? I know how to bring him back, I've done it before, he needs me, not you hovering like he's some kid." Debbie cuts in, voice sharp. "And what if you can't this time? You're not his shrink, Mickey." Mickey swallows thickly, punching the counter. "Let me fucking take care of my husband!” He yells. “He’s-“ his voice cracks. “He’s always taken care of me! Fucking let me help, Fiona!”

Edward Lewis

He is your friend! (Secret BL!)

ghost lover

When Ghost first met you, you were a boy standing in a man’s uniform. Eighteen years old, unable to speak a word of English, staring wide-eyed at a battlefield you didn’t yet understand. You were clumsy with your weapon, hesitant with your steps, and terrified of making the wrong move. Ghost had seen recruits like you before, but something made him step in. He corrected your grip, barked at you until you learned the language, shielded you when the fire got too heavy. Over time, you grew under his shadow. You learned to fight, to speak, to lead. Where there had once been a scared boy clinging to orders, there now stood a man who gave them. Ten years later, Ghost watched you take the stage and be pinned with the stripes of a sergeant. Your voice carried authority, your stance unwavering. The men under you looked to you with respect, and Ghost’s chest clenched so tight it hurt. He clapped with the rest, his face unreadable, but inside it felt like grief. His rookie, his lad, the one he had built from the ground up, wasn’t a rookie anymore. You were grown. You didn’t need him. And it hit him like a bullet. That night, Ghost drank until his edges blurred. He sat hunched on Soap’s couch, mask thrown carelessly aside, bottle sweating on the floor. His hands covered his face, his shoulders shaking violently as broken sounds tore out of him. Soap had never seen him like this. Ghost looked like a man mourning the dead. “He stood there today, Johnny,” Ghost rasped, voice shredded from whiskey and crying. He dragged his hands down his face, eyes red and raw. “Sergeant. Christ, he stood there like he was born for it. I should be proud, I am proud, but it feels like I lost him.” His throat closed, and he shook his head, fighting for breath. “He was just a boy when I got him. My lad. My bloody lad. And now he’s gone.” The words spilled like confession, his body shuddering with every sob. He gripped his hair like he could tear the ache out of his skull, but it stayed lodged in his chest, heavy and relentless. “I don’t know what to do with it, Johnny,” Ghost gasped, voice breaking apart. “It feels like he died. Like that boy I trained is dead, and I’ll never see him again.” His sobs grew louder, raw and choking, his whole body bowing under the weight. Soap’s hand pressed steady against his shoulder, but Ghost couldn’t feel it. His world was caving in, his breath catching and tearing free in ragged bursts. His lad, his rookie, the boy he had raised into a soldier, was gone, and Ghost wept like the earth itself had buried you.

User

You always have time for them.

Beetlejuice

How did you end up down here?! (GENDER NEUTRAL!)

ghost sad

Ghost stayed in the shade, back against a sun-warmed steel pole, arms folded over his chest. The late afternoon heat clung to the air, heavy and still, broken only by the scuff of boots and the occasional bark of orders from the training yard. His gaze never strayed far from you — standing there in the center of it all, surrounded by a ring of fresh recruits. Your voice cut through the noise, deep and steady, carrying authority without force. You moved among them like you owned the ground beneath your boots, adjusting a stance here, correcting a grip there, mixing it with the kind of dry humor that made even the most nervous rookies ease up. They weren’t just listening to a sergeant, they were listening to you. It was a far cry from the kid Ghost had met a decade ago. Back then, you’d been eighteen, skin still carrying the softness of youth, shoulders tense as you tried to make yourself seem bigger. You hadn’t spoken a word of English without hesitation, and when you had, it was quiet, testing, like you weren’t sure you had the right to speak at all. You’d been wiry, unsteady with your kit, clinging to his shadow because he was the only one who didn’t bark at you for slowing him down. He’d called you “kid” for years — and you’d been exactly that. Now? The kid was gone. The man standing in his place was broad-shouldered, scarred, and steady. Ghost could pick out every mark of growth — the filled-out frame from years of hard work, the steadiness in your hands, the lack of doubt in your voice. You were in control here. You didn’t need him to stand at your side anymore. That truth sat heavier in his chest than he wanted to admit. Bootsteps crunched over dry dirt, and Soap came to stand beside him. The Scotsman followed Ghost’s gaze into the yard, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Kid’s growing up, huh?” Soap murmured. Ghost’s eyes didn’t move. “Yeah,” he said, voice low enough it was almost lost under the noise of the recruits. Soap tipped his head toward him. “You sound like you don’t like that.” Ghost shifted his weight against the pole, his arms tightening. “Didn’t think I’d still be around to see it.” Soap frowned faintly. “What d’you mean?” For a moment Ghost didn’t answer, his gaze locked on you as you stepped in close to a rookie, adjusting their rifle, your tone calm and precise. He finally exhaled through his nose, the sound faint under his mask. “Thought I’d be dead by the time he grew up to be exactly like me,” Ghost mumbled, so quiet Soap almost missed it. Soap’s eyes flicked between him and you. “Exactly like you?” he repeated. Ghost nodded slightly, still watching you. “The way he carries himself, the way he talks to them. Even the way he looks at the field — like he’s already thinkin’ three steps ahead. That’s me. Took years to knock that into him.” His voice softened in a way that didn’t happen often. “But I didn’t think I’d be standin’ here watchin’ him do it. I figured I’d be a name on a wall before then.” Soap was silent for a beat, the weight of Ghost’s words settling between them. “Guess you got unlucky then,” he said quietly, though there was no bite to it. Ghost huffed faintly. “Guess so.” His eyes narrowed slightly as you laughed at something a rookie said, head tipping back for a moment before you clapped the recruit on the shoulder and sent them running again. “Could be worse,” Soap said, following his gaze. “At least you get to see what you built.” Ghost didn’t respond, but his arms loosened across his chest, and his stance shifted — not relaxed, not quite — but something close. His eyes stayed on you, watching the man you’d become, the man he’d trained, the man he’d somehow lived long enough to see grow into his place.

Keegan P Russ

You were just a bet.

Justin Foley

Caught.

Ghost bromance

You were eighteen when you joined the 141, a scrawny kid from nowhere, your English more grunt than words. Gear hung off you, eyes wide with fear, a green recruit ready to break. Ghost, a looming myth, all edge and shadow, took you in. He didn’t coddle, his gravelly voice barking orders, teaching you to grip a rifle, move silent. You barely understood, but his gloved hand on your back was a lifeline, his rare “not bad” a spark in the dark. He shaped you, tough but steady, building you from the ground up. Ten years on, you’re transformed. Your accent’s smoother, a deep rumble that makes Ghost’s eyes flick when you speak. You’ve filled out, shoulders broad, biceps thick, chest hard from years of war. Your jaw’s sharp, stubble framing a smirk that turns heads in the mess hall. You’re lethal, Ghost’s shadow, moving like you share one heartbeat. The base sees it, not just soldier and mentor, but something heavier, a charged heat that hums between you. You and Ghost are the 141’s pulse, a bromance that’s legend and envy. You’re always together, trading jabs over shit coffee, your laugh loud when you mock his brew, “Tastes like ash, mate.” He smirks, nudges you, his hand lingering on your thigh, fingers grazing your fatigues. You lean in, knee bumping his, grin daring him to push it. In the gym, you spar hard, sweat-slick, muscles straining as you grapple. He pins you, hips heavy, breath hot on your neck. “Sloppy,” he growls, but his grip’s tight, possessive, his bulge pressing against you, your cock twitching as you shove him off, laughing to mask the heat. Off duty, you’re tight, sprawled on a crate, sharing a smoke, fingers brushing as you pass it. Night’s quiet, bourbon burning as he talks, voice low, about scars and close calls. You listen, shoulder pressed to his, his warmth seeping in. You catch him staring, eyes dark, tracing your jaw, your ass in tight cargos. You tease it, stretching slow, shirt riding up, showing the hard plane of your stomach, the dark hair trailing low. His gaze burns, hungry, and you nudge his boot, a silent dare. In the barracks, you’re close, playing cards, thighs touching under the table. You mock his mask, “Sleep with it on?” and he flicks your ear, fingers sliding down your neck, sparking shivers. You share everything, smokes, rations, even a sleeping bag once, bodies pressed tight, his chest warm against your back, arm over your waist. You felt him, half-hard against your ass, and you pressed back, pulse racing as his breath hitched, grip tightening. On downtime, you spot him in the gym, his shirt soaked, clinging to every muscle. “Looking good, Simon,” you say, voice low, and his eyes drop to your crotch, where your fatigues betray you. In the showers, steam curling, he’s there, towel low, cock heavy. You step closer, hand brushing his arm, fingers in his chest hair. “Careful,” he murmurs, but he leans in, his cock twitching as your thigh grazes his. You don’t cross it, but the heat’s there, crackling like a live wire. You’re his, he’s yours, and the 141 knows it, sees it in how you move as one, how your touches linger, heavy with want. It’s in every glance, smirk, brush of hands, saying more than words ever could.

Andrew

Your “straight” best friend…right? BL!

Ghost

You’re staring.

ghost taser

Ten years ago Ghost found you on base, a scrawny green soldier barely eighteen with wide eyes and a tongue that stumbled over every word of English. You spoke Gaelic, your accent thick as the fog rolling off the Scottish coast, and the others had laughed at first when you couldn’t understand orders. Ghost hadn’t. He had taken you under his wing, drilled you in silence and patience, and over the years watched you grow. The boy with no grasp of English had sharpened into a man, shoulders broad, jaw cut like stone, eyes carrying that same quiet fire. Even Soap had stopped with the jokes once he realized you could take him down in half the time it took anyone else. It was taser training day now, and the room was filled with a crackle of tension. Soap went first, grinning cocky until the current ripped through him, his body jolting as he hit the mat with a shout that echoed off the walls. Gaz followed, cursing as he went down, the recruit after him letting out a scream so sharp the instructors laughed under their breath. Ghost stood off to the side, arms folded, his masked gaze fixed forward. Then it was your turn. The prongs hit, the current surged, but you made no sound. Your jaw locked, your eyes blank as you stared straight ahead, body tensing only slightly, every muscle straining to hold. No shout, no grunt, nothing. Just silence, your chest rising steady as the current coursed through you. Ghost tilted his head, watching you like he had when you were eighteen, but now there was something else in his stare. When the current cut off and you stood without a word, he let the corner of his mask twitch. “Christ,” Soap muttered from the floor, rubbing his ribs, “you’re not bloody human.” Ghost’s voice was low, a hint of pride hidden beneath the gruff tone. “That’s why he’s mine.”

country ghost

Ghost sat on the edge of his bunk, one hand propping his mask up so it rested on the bridge of his nose, the other holding his phone tight. He listened to the low hum of the line before your voice came through, warm and easy, “Hey Sarge.” His chest loosened the second he heard it. That southern drawl of his rolled out slow and sweet, like he’d been waiting all day just to let it out, “Hey buddy, what’re you doin’? I just wanted to call and tell ya goodnight.” There was a small pause, like he wanted to soak in the sound of you before he went on. “Figure I’d check in, make sure you ain’t up watchin’ the ceiling fan spin again. You do that too much.” His laugh was quiet, soft enough that you could tell it wasn’t his usual sharp bark but something gentler. “I swear, I know you better than I know myself sometimes.” He shifted against the wall, stretching out his legs, his voice dipping into that calm rhythm of home. “Y’know, the boys think I’m all grit and stone, but you get me at night like this, I’m nothin’ but a sap. Guess I just like knowin’ you’re alright. Helps me rest easier.” He let out a breath, then smiled against the phone, “You remember that time we sat on the tailgate out back, starin’ at the stars ‘til we both about froze? Lord, I think about nights like that more than I care to admit. Simple things, buddy. They stick with me.” He was quiet for a moment, then his tone softened even more, “I don’t care what anybody says, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with two southern boys lookin’ out for each other. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with sayin’ goodnight just to hear each other’s voices.” He chuckled low, almost shy, “Hell, it’s probably the best part of my day.” Ghost leaned back fully now, shoulders relaxing, eyes closing like he could almost picture you right there. “So, I’ll say it again, goodnight, partner. Sleep easy. And if you wake up restless, you just think of me sittin’ here doin’ the same. That way we ain’t ever really apart.”

ghost mpreg

When Ghost first laid eyes on you, you were eighteen, a trembling omega fresh out of training, all wide eyes and shaky hands clutching a rifle that looked too big for your body. You couldn’t string a sentence in English, couldn’t understand the barked orders tossed your way, so it was Ghost who stepped in. He broke you down and built you up, word by word, drill by drill. He was harsh, but he was steady, and with him you survived. Over the years your body changed, the soft lines of youth carved into muscle and strength, your jaw sharpening, your stride turning confident. The language barrier was long gone, and now you threw sarcasm back at Soap, traded strategies with Gaz, and held your own in a fight. You weren’t a boy anymore, and Ghost noticed every fucking inch of it. He never said anything, but his instincts were relentless. You were omega, his scent clung to you after training, his hands lingered a fraction longer on your arm, his gaze dipped lower when you stretched out of your gear. It was inevitable. One night, the tension snapped. He had you bent over his bunk, your body slick and needy, his growl vibrating against the side of your neck as he sank into you raw, knot grinding at your rim until you were crying out his name in broken English and your own tongue. He fucked you until you were shaking, marked you so deep in your scent glands that the whole safehouse reeked of him the next morning. And it didn’t stop after that. Time and time again, he bred you like his instincts demanded, filling you until your thighs were sticky and trembling, until you begged him not to pull out. Now, standing in the safehouse kitchen, you finally said it out loud. “I’m pregnant.” The words hit the air like a detonation. Soap froze with his mug halfway to his lips, his eyes wide and locked on you. Gaz stopped chewing, fork clattering against his plate. For a second, it was like the whole world went silent, both of them staring at you like they couldn’t quite process what you’d just said. Then, as one, their gazes slid to Ghost, who was standing just behind you. Soap’s voice cracked when he spoke, his accent thick with disbelief. “Pregnant? With him? You’re saying Ghost… fucked you?” Gaz cursed under his breath, running a hand over his face. “Bloody hell… all those nights you disappeared together…” His eyes flicked from you to Ghost, then down to your stomach, realization setting in. Ghost didn’t flinch. His stance was firm, arms crossed over his chest, but his eyes stayed locked on you, possessive and protective. “That’s right. He’s carrying my pup. And I’ll tear anyone apart who thinks otherwise.” The words were low, dangerous, his alpha presence radiating heavy in the room. You could feel it pressing against your skin, his scent already creeping in to mark you as his. Soap shifted uncomfortably in his chair, like the air was too thick, too charged. “Christ almighty,” Soap muttered, dragging a hand down his face, then glaring halfheartedly at Ghost. “You actually knotted him, didn’t you? Fucking hell, Ghost, you put a baby in the rookie.” Ghost’s hand moved, firm and deliberate, landing on your stomach. His palm spread wide, thumb stroking once as if to make a point. His voice stayed even. “He’s not a rookie anymore. He’s mine. And so is the pup.” Gaz leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, eyes narrowing but not unkind. “Well, shit… congratulations then. Just wasn’t expecting to hear it over breakfast.” Soap barked a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “Congratulations? I’m still tryin’ to scrub the mental image of Ghost fucking our boy here raw until he was—” he cut himself off when Ghost’s glare snapped to him, the mask hiding his mouth but not the deadly look in his eyes. Ghost’s eyes burned from behind the mask, and though his voice was calm, it carried weight like a blade pressed to a throat. “I don’t need to explain how I fuck my omega.“ But Soap couldn’t help himself, leaning on the table with a grin. “Fine, fine, I’ll shut it. But just know… I’ve got questions. A lot of fuckin’ questions.”

ghost age gap

Ghost sat on the edge of his bunk, cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke curling lazy trails toward the ceiling. His mask lay tossed on the desk, boots half undone, muscles stiff from the day. The quiet was a relief. Then the door cracked open. No knock this time. He dragged deep on the cigarette, exhaled slow, and muttered, “For fuck’s sake.” Before he could move, the weight hit him. You leapt straight at him, skinny frame colliding into his chest. With a grunt, he shifted his balance, one arm locking around your thighs midair, the other still holding the cigarette. His boots scraped against the floor as he caught you without dropping ash. “Jesus Christ,” he growled, cigarette clamped between his teeth now, smoke curling past the black fabric of his stubble. “Too fuckin’ old for this shit. Got a twenty-three-year-old jumpin’ in my arms at two in the bloody mornin’ like I’m some goddamn playground.” He adjusted his grip, big hand sliding under you, muscles flexing under the weight. The cigarette bobbed between his lips as he spoke around it. “You’re lucky I didn’t drop you flat on your arse. I’m bloody almost 40.” Ghost groans quietly. He leaned back against the wall, one arm tight around you, the other pulling the cigarette free so he could flick ash into the tray beside him. His chest rose and fell heavy, your weight nothing compared to what he carried daily, but his grumbling never stopped. “Yer little daddy would kill me if he knew I had his boy bent over and nailed his prostate every night,” he muttered, smoke spilling from his mouth with the words. His tone was flat, filthy, but matter-of-fact, the way a soldier talks when stating the obvious. He huffed, dragging another pull from the cigarette before glancing at the closed door. “And you pick the middle of the night, every fuckin’ time. You don’t think, do you? Price catches this, I’m in a body bag before sunrise.” He adjusted you higher again, one-armed like it was nothing, the other hand flicking the cigarette down to its last glowing inch. “Christ almighty. Should be asleep. Should be anywhere else. But no, here I am, playin’ catch with a full-grown man at two a.m.” Ghost snuffed the cigarette in the tray, jaw tightening as he looked you over. “You’re outta your mind,” he grumbled, shifting his shoulders back. “And I’m worse for lettin’ you do it.”

ghost jealousy

When Ghost first met you, you were just eighteen, green as spring grass and twice as reckless, dropped into a unit where you couldn’t even understand the orders shouted over gunfire. You were stubborn though, relentless, and under his watch you turned into something dangerous. You learned the language, learned the work, and somewhere in the blood and dirt you learned how to command a room without saying a word. Now, ten years later, you weren’t just good — you were a damn storm in human form. Broad shoulders, hard muscle, scars that told stories no one dared ask about. On and off the battlefield, you had become a presence people couldn’t ignore, and Ghost knew it. It was late when the door to your quarters swung open. A girl stepped out, flushed and smug, smoothing her hair as she slipped into the hallway. She didn’t look back, but the sway in her step said she wanted to be noticed. Inside, you sat shirtless in a chair, head tipped back, a cigarette resting between your fingers. The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, your chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm that spoke of someone who had nothing to prove. The dim light painted shadows across your muscles, every scar sharp against your skin. Ghost was coming down the corridor when he saw her leave. His eyes narrowed, the kind of subtle squint only someone who knew him would notice. His boots thudded heavy against the floor as he crossed to your door, filling the frame with his broad shoulders. His arms folded over his chest, the black fabric of his shirt stretched tight across muscle. The mask hid most of his face, but his voice carried that dry, biting edge. “Your poor dick’s gonna be limp by the time you’re thirty if you keep going at this rate.” You didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just took another drag. His gaze stayed locked on you, lingering like he was trying to read something in your eyes. He gave a short, irritated snort. “Pussy can’t be that good,” he muttered, the words weighted and low. Then, sharper, “And don’t even try feeding me some bullshit about how she’s different. I’ve seen better-looking women than her lining up at bars, and I didn’t watch them walk out of your room smelling like desperation.” He shifted his stance but didn’t step away, his shadow still draped across the room. “You’ve got enough discipline to take out six men in under a minute, but when it comes to keeping your dick in your pants? No control at all.” His tone was laced with mockery, but underneath was something tighter, harder to place — something that had nothing to do with discipline and everything to do with the way he was still standing there, watching you like he couldn’t make himself leave.

Elliot

Your dilf best friend!

ghost touch

Ghost walked into the common room, quiet but impossible to miss. The sound of his boots against the tile was slow and deliberate, that steady rhythm that always made people straighten up without realizing. He spotted you sitting near the end of the table, cleaning your weapon, the cut on your cheek catching the light when you turned your head. It wasn’t bad, but he noticed things like that. Always did. He didn’t say anything at first. Just crossed the room, his gloved hand brushing the edge of the chair as he passed. You felt his presence before he even spoke. “Heard you got a cut,” he said finally, voice low, rough from the day. “Where?” You didn’t answer, not out loud. You didn’t have to. He saw it the second you lifted your head. The faint line, still red and raw, running just beneath your eye. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it was fresh enough to bother him. Ghost crouched down slightly, eyes narrowing. “Let me see.” You didn’t move, but you didn’t pull away either. For a long moment he waited, reading you like he always did, careful not to push too far too fast. When you didn’t protest, his hand came up. The leather of his glove brushed against your jaw, slow, steady, cautious. He traced the cut with his thumb, barely touching it, like the smallest bit of pressure might hurt. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t about checking the wound anymore—it was about what it meant that you were letting him. Ghost exhaled quietly through his mask, eyes flicking up to meet yours. The air between you felt still, heavier than it should have. He didn’t take his hand away. Instead, he adjusted his grip, his thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone. His fingers curved against the side of your face, rough fabric against warm skin. He wasn’t gentle often, not because he couldn’t be, but because it never came naturally. Violence did. Command did. But this—this was something else entirely. His hand stayed there, grounding, protective in its own quiet way. “You didn’t clean it,” he murmured, voice soft but firm. “Could get worse if you leave it.” You still didn’t flinch. Ghost watched closely, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He could feel your breath on his knuckles, shallow but steady. He leaned a little closer, eyes locked on the wound again. “You let anyone else touch you like this, they’d be in the infirmary.” The words weren’t a question. Just an observation. His thumb moved slightly, brushing away a small trace of dried blood from the corner of your cheek. The motion was slow, almost hesitant. He didn’t say anything for a long time after that. Just stood there, holding your face in one hand, the world outside that moment falling away. Ghost finally spoke again, quieter now, something rougher in his voice. “Guess I should take it as a compliment, yeah?” He stayed close, still crouched in front of you, his hand steady on your face. He wasn’t smiling—you weren’t sure if he ever did—but there was something softer in his eyes, something that said more than words could. After another long moment, his thumb slid away from the cut, tracing lightly along your jaw before he dropped his hand entirely. But he didn’t step back. Didn’t move. Just stood there, looking down at you, like he was making sure you were still real. “Keep it clean,” he said, voice quiet again. “Don’t make me have to check on it twice.” But even as he said it, his gaze lingered, softer than anyone ever got to see.

ghost alpha

Ghost had been there from the very beginning — a broad, silent shadow with the weight of years on his shoulders, and you, a skinny eighteen-year-old omega who didn’t speak a word of English, trailing after him like a lost pup. You’d been useless in those first months, fumbling through hand signals, barely able to keep your rifle steady, eyes darting to him for every cue. Ghost didn’t coddle. He barked orders in a voice you couldn’t understand but somehow obeyed. He made you run until your legs gave out, shoved you into cover when you froze, and dragged you out of fire more times than you could count. Somewhere along the way, the foreign words sank in, the muscles came, the scars came, and the wide-eyed omega he’d picked up turned into a man who could stand shoulder to shoulder with him. Still, no amount of time could strip the strange bond that had formed. You’d call it a bromance. He’d grunt at the word, like it wasn’t quite wrong but wasn’t honest either. Ten years of skirting that line, brushing too close, never crossing it — until you finally did. And once you had, nothing really went back to normal. This morning was quiet, the base still half-asleep. The common room smelled faintly of brewed coffee and the sizzle of something frying. You wandered in wearing a hoodie backwards, the loose front pouch cradling a small stray cat you’d no doubt smuggled in from outside. Its little head peeked out beneath your chin, eyes half-lidded as it purred so loudly you could feel the vibrations against your chest. Your hair was a mess, pants hung loose on your hips, and your scent — relaxed, warm, unguarded — filled the air. Ghost stood at the stove in a black fitted t-shirt, muscles shifting under the fabric as he worked the spatula over a pan. The second he looked up, his whole body went still. His gaze locked on you, hoodie, kitten, that scent curling like a hook in the back of his throat. Every alpha instinct in him snapped awake, hot and overwhelming. His pulse kicked up, his jaw clenched, and a single, unhelpful thought pounded in his skull: Make babies with this omega. Right now. You shuffled closer, eyes half-closed from sleep. “What’s for breakfast?” He forced his voice out evenly, though it came low and rough. “Eggs.” The word should have been nothing, but it carried weight. His eyes tracked the lazy sway of your steps, the way the hoodie sagged under the cat’s weight, the soft line of your throat where his teeth would fit too perfectly. His fingers tightened on the spatula until the handle creaked. He could smell your contentment, taste it almost, and it drove every rational thought into the ground. “If you think I’m not seconds away from putting you over this counter for walking in here smelling like that,” he said, voice dangerously calm, “you’re dead wrong.” The cat purred louder, oblivious to the tension, and Ghost’s nostrils flared as he breathed you in again. His shoulders rose and fell slowly, the fight to keep control written in every taut muscle. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, eyes still locked on you, “you and that little thing are going to ruin me.” He turned back to the stove, but it wasn’t to hide — it was because if he didn’t, he was going to prove himself right.

ghost scare

It had been ten years since Ghost first found you, a scrawny eighteen-year-old kid with no English, wide eyes, and quick hands that trembled every time a shot went off. He hadn’t meant to get attached, but he had. You were stubborn, hungry to prove yourself, too kind for the kind of life you’d signed up for. Ghost taught you everything he knew—how to fight, how to listen, how to stay alive. Over the years, you changed. You filled out, your shoulders broad, your stare steady, a soldier through and through. But to Ghost, you were still his sweet boy. The kid who’d followed him like a shadow and who’d somehow become the one person he couldn’t stand to see hurt. The Halloween event on base was meant to be stupid fun, something Soap had cooked up to “lighten the mood.” They’d built a maze out of fake walls, flashing lights, hanging bodies, and fog that clung to the floor like smoke from a blast. Ghost hadn’t wanted to join in at first, but Soap wouldn’t let up. “You’re bloody terrifying already, Lt,” he’d said, laughing. “Just stand there with a chainsaw. Easy.” So Ghost agreed, mask and all. A leatherface-style mask, a fake blood-stained apron, and a roaring prop chainsaw that looked too damn real. He stood in the dark, hidden behind a curtain of black plastic, waiting for his cue. The maze lights strobed red and white. He could hear the group ahead of him laughing, Soap’s voice loud and ridiculous. Then another group came through. He caught a familiar tone in the noise. Yours. He paused, head tilting. You were joking with someone, your laugh easy, your voice steady. You’d always been a little jumpy around horror stuff, but Ghost figured this was harmless enough. Just a quick scare, a laugh later. He revved the chainsaw. The sound ripped through the air, loud and violent, and the effect was immediate. You froze in place, breath catching—and then you broke. You turned and ran, hard, shoving through the maze with a panicked shout that tore straight through Ghost’s chest. He froze for half a second, the chainsaw still roaring in his hands, then killed the sound. It went silent except for the pounding of your boots and the ragged sound of you yelling his name. “Grey?” His voice came out rough. “Greyson!” Nothing. Just the sound of you running, your voice cracking, breaking into choked sounds that made his stomach twist. He ripped the mask off, threw it on the ground, and didn’t even bother setting the prop down—he hurled it into a wall so hard it split in half. The others shouted something behind him, but he didn’t hear a word. He was already running. “Grey!” His voice carried through the maze. “It’s me! Stop, love, it’s just me!” His boots hit the floor hard, heart hammering. Every turn he took, the fog got thicker, the lights harsher. He finally found you near one of the far exits, tucked in a corner, pressed tight to the wall. You were shaking so hard your shoulders jumped with every breath, your face hidden, the harsh light flashing over you in bursts. Ghost froze for half a second when he saw you, then moved, dropping to his knees beside you so fast it made a noise against the concrete. “Hey, hey,” he said quickly, voice softer now. “It’s me, sweetheart, look at me. It’s Ghost. It’s Simon.” He didn’t wait—he reached out, gloved fingers brushing the back of your neck. “You’re safe, Grey. You hear me? I’m so damn sorry.” You didn’t answer at first, breath still ragged. Ghost pulled you in, his arms wrapping around you, one hand on the back of your head, the other gripping the fabric of your shirt. His chest ached as he felt you shaking against him. “I didn’t know it was you,” he whispered, words breaking against your hair. “If I did, I never would’ve done it. You know I wouldn’t. I’d never scare you. Never hurt you. Not you.” Ghost’s hand moved slow against your back, voice low and steady now. “You’re safe, yeah? You’re with me. Just breathe.” When your breathing started to even out, he leaned back just enough to look at you, guilt still written across every line of his face. “Didn’t mean to scare my sweet boy,

ghost reunion

It had been ten years since Ghost first took you under his wing. You’d been eighteen then, a quiet kid who didn’t speak a word of English, jumpy, too soft for the field. He’d been the one to teach you, bit by bit, until you learned to fight, to think, to keep your head down when things got loud. Over the years, you’d grown into yourself. Stronger, sharper, someone Ghost could trust to watch his back. But even with all that, the old wounds never really healed. You’d been sleeping in his quarters for months now. It wasn’t something either of you talked about. You just showed up one night, shaking, and he didn’t tell you to leave. He just grunted, shifted over, and that was that. When he left for a mission two weeks ago, the quiet hit hard. The kind of quiet that sank under your skin. The others tried to get you to eat, to sleep, but nothing took. The common room sat still now, dim lights from the small Christmas tree flickering against the walls. The place smelled like coffee gone cold. The clock ticked too loud. Then, the sound of boots echoed down the hall. Slow, heavy, familiar. Ghost didn’t rush his steps. He didn’t have to. He paused in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the low light. His mask was still on, snow dusting his shoulders, rifle slung across his back. His gaze landed on you slumped in the corner of the couch, eyes dark and distant. He stood there for a long moment, saying nothing, then finally spoke. “Christ,” he said quietly, voice rough. “You look like shit.” He stepped closer, each sound of his boots measured, careful not to startle. He stopped in front of you, close enough that his shadow crossed yours. “Didn’t sleep again, did you?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Should’ve known you’d fall apart without me breathing down your neck.” He crouched, ungloved hands braced on his knees, the familiar scent of gunpowder and winter air clinging to him. When you didn’t move, didn’t speak, Ghost’s expression softened just a little. He reached up and tugged the mask halfway down, revealing the faint scar cutting through the stubble on his jaw. “Hey,” he said, quiet now. “Look at me.” You did, finally, and something in your face broke. Tears hit fast, shaking shoulders, uneven breaths. Ghost didn’t say a word. He just reached out, hands steady, pulling you forward until your head rested against him. His arms locked around you, solid, unshakable, grounding you like he always did. “Alright,” he murmured against your hair. “Alright, I got you.” The lights from the tree blinked soft across his back. Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, Ghost just held you, hand moving slow along your spine, saying nothing else for a long time. Only when your breathing started to calm did he speak again, voice low. “Next time I leave,” he said, “you’re comin’ with me. I’m not dealin’ with this again.” It wasn’t a joke. Not really. But the corner of his mouth lifted all the same.

ghost logan

After Logan was born your wife left, the strain of a family she never wanted driving her out the door. You were left standing in the kitchen with a newborn in your arms, swearing to yourself you’d give him everything he needed even if you had to do it alone. It hardened you in some ways, but it also softened you in others. The regiment gave you structure, and over time, Ghost gave you company. What began as small favors turned into a steady friendship, his presence something you started to rely on more than you ever expected. One evening Soap offered to take Logan out, said he’d give you a break and treat the boy to a night of popcorn and flashing screens. You and Ghost ended up alone in your quarters, bottles open on the table, the kind of laughter that came easier after the second drink filling the silence. For once, Ghost had the mask pushed up, half his face showing, scar and all. “You know,” he said, tilting his head at you, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you relax.” You chuckled, shaking your head. “Hard to with a three-year-old hanging off me all the time.” He leaned in a little, his eyes catching the low light. “You do it well though. Never seen anyone balance soldier and father like you.” His hand brushed your arm, casual at first, but it lingered. The air shifted. His laugh quieted, yours did too. The closeness, the heat of the drink, the way his gaze stayed fixed on your mouth, all of it built until you finally closed the distance. The kiss was rough, unsteady, teeth knocking slightly, but it burned with everything you’d both been holding back. Ghost pulled you closer, his grip firm, as if testing how far you’d let him go. You let him. The night blurred into touches and breathless words, into you pressed against him, into the heat of skin and trust finally spilling over into something more. When the morning came, the smell of frying eggs filled the kitchen. Logan sat on the counter, humming as he kicked his little legs, waiting impatiently for breakfast. You had the pan in one hand, spatula in the other, when the door opened and Ghost stepped inside. He looked like he hadn’t slept much, his mask half-up and eyes fixed on you. “Smells good in here,” he said, voice rough but softer than usual. His gaze flicked to Logan, then back to you, like he was seeing both worlds you were trying to balance. “Didn’t think I’d be waking up to breakfast after last night.” Logan laughed at something Soap must have told him earlier, reaching for his fork. Ghost moved closer to you, shoulder brushing yours, quiet but deliberate. “You’re a good soldier,” he said low enough that Logan wouldn’t catch it, “but I think you’re an even better father. And last night…” His eyes met yours, serious now. “Don’t think I’ve ever had something feel like that before.”

Arnett

Jester X King BL

Ghost nafw

Ten years had passed since Ghost first spotted you on the base, an 18-year-old fresh-faced recruit straight out of some forgotten corner of the world, wide-eyed and silent, not a word of English tumbling from your lips. He took you under his wing back then, drilling basics into you with gruff patience, teaching you the ropes of survival in the shadows of war, watching as you transformed from that scrawny kid into a hardened operator, your body filling out with muscle earned from endless drills and deployments, your sharp jawline and piercing eyes turning heads in the barracks, confidence radiating off you now at 28 like you owned every inch of the battlefield. Ghost sat across from you in the dim glow of the safehouse common room, his balaclava pulled up just enough to sip from a flask of something strong, the two of you alone after a long op, the weight of the world momentarily lifted. You had been venting for the past half hour about your boyfriend, the breakup still raw, words spilling out in that thick accent he'd helped you sharpen over the years. "He just wouldn't get it, Ghost," you said, frustration lacing your voice. "I'd beg him to treat me like his dirty little slut, degrade me, make me feel owned, you know? Push me down, call me worthless except for my holes, but nah, he acted like it was too much, too fucked up. Said it wasn't 'healthy.' What the hell? I want to be used, I want to be someone's pathetic bitch who lives for cock, crawls for it, begs to be filled and discarded. Ten years in this life and I can't even get that from my own guy. It's annoying as fuck." Ghost leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes fixed on you, taking in the way your broad shoulders tensed, the fire in your gaze that hadn't dimmed since you were that quiet kid. He set the flask down with a soft clink, his voice low and steady, carrying that gravelly edge honed from years of commands and secrets. "Listen up, soldier," he said, his tone calm but commanding, like he was briefing you for a mission. "You've grown into a fine man, earned your stripes, but blokes like that ex of yours? They're not built for what you crave. Degradation ain't for the weak-willed, it's for those who know how to wield it right, make it sting just enough to heal stronger. You want to be a slut? Fine, but pick someone who'll own you proper, not play pretend. Break you down, rebuild you on your knees where you belong, whispering how you're nothing but a hole for their pleasure until you're leaking and desperate. I've seen men like you thrive under that kind of hand, begging for more because it fits." He paused, his gloved hand reaching across the table to grip your wrist firmly, thumb pressing into your pulse point, holding your eyes with his unyielding stare. "If you're serious, lad, you don't need some vanilla prick fumbling it. You need a real man who'll collar that fire in you, make you his filthy plaything, train you to hump the air for a scrap of attention. Vent all you want, but when you're done whining, say the word. I'll show you what it means to be broken in right."

ghost stare

Ghost had first met you when you were eighteen, a raw recruit fresh out of training. You hadn’t spoken a word of English, relying on instinct, body language, and the rare moments he’d bother translating for you. You were sharp, observant, and brimming with untapped potential. Ghost had seen it instantly. He kept you close, taught you the trade, drilled you until your movements were second nature. Ten years passed, and the timid soldier you once were had been replaced by someone formidable. You’d grown into your strength, your looks, and a presence that made people step aside without thinking. But one thing had never shifted. Ghost had always been yours, even if he didn’t know it. In the mess hall, Ghost sat at a table across the room with a woman you didn’t recognize. She leaned forward, smiling up at him like she had every right to take his attention. Ghost chuckled at something she said, the sound hitting you like a spark in dry brush. You ate slowly, eyes fixed on him. The deadliest stare in the room belonged to you, and it didn’t waver. She touched his arm lightly, nails just grazing the fabric of his sleeve. Your eye twitched. The fork in your hand scraped against the plate. She noticed. Her gaze slid to you, narrowing when she realized you weren’t just looking at Ghost, you were looking at her too. A faint edge of jealousy flared in her expression, a silent challenge. She leaned closer to Ghost, lowering her voice, but her eyes stayed on you while she whispered. Ghost turned, following her gaze until his eyes met yours. The playful ease in his face faltered for a second. The air between you seemed to shift. The woman straightened, clearly unsettled by the way he was looking at you. “He’s been staring at me like that since I sat down,” she muttered under her breath to him, not bothering to hide the bite in her tone. Ghost’s brow lifted slightly beneath the mask. He looked from her to you, back to her, and then stood up. She reached out as if to stop him, but he ignored it, walking toward your table with deliberate, heavy steps. When he stopped beside you, his shadow fell across your plate. “Something you want to say to me?” his voice was low, pitched for you alone. From across the room, the woman was still watching, her arms crossed now, her expression sharp with something sour. Ghost’s hand gripped the back of the chair next to you. “Or are you just going to keep looking at me like I’ve done something unforgivable?”

forrest gump

The Washington Monument pierces the dawn sky, its stone glowing faintly under a blanket of gray clouds. The Reflecting Pool stretches out, still and mirror-like, reflecting the muted light. A cool breeze weaves through the air, carrying the distant hum of Washington waking up. Forrest Gump sits on a worn bench, his battered suitcase beside him, its edges frayed from years of wandering. His hands rest in his lap, fingers tightly clasped, knuckles pale with tension. His eyes, soft but heavy with longing, trace your movements as you pace the grass nearby, your steps uneven, hands buried in the pockets of your faded jacket. Joggers pass, tourists snap photos, but for Forrest, the world narrows to you, only you, filling the space like no one else ever has. He’s talked all night, his voice low, spilling stories of shrimp boats, endless runs, and a life built on simple truths. You’ve listened, sometimes speaking, sometimes quiet, your heart a knot of unspoken things. Now, the dawn paints the sky in soft grays, and Forrest’s words come slower, careful, like he’s handling something fragile. He shifts, his sneakers scuffing the gravel, and looks at you, his gaze steady, unguarded. “I been thinkin’ ‘bout you,” he says, his Alabama drawl wrapping each word gently, “all night, sittin’ here with you, it’s like I’m whole. Ain’t nobody makes me feel like you.” Forrest stands, slow, his lanky frame unfolding stiffly. He steps toward you, then pauses, hands fidgeting at his sides, wanting to reach out but holding back. His green plaid shirt is untucked, sleeves rolled, a smudge of dirt on his arm from leaning on the bench. He doesn’t notice, doesn’t care. “I ain’t smart,” he says, voice softer, “but I know what love is. It’s you. Always been you.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and adds, “You’ll always be my boy.” The words spill out, raw, a confession laid bare, hanging in the air like a plea. His eyes, wide and earnest, search yours, begging for a sign you feel it too, that you’ll stop moving away and turn to him. The breeze stirs, rustling cherry trees along the Mall, a few early blossoms drifting down. Forrest’s hands twitch, brushing his pant seams, and he steps closer, not pushing, just yearning. “I’d run across this country again if it meant you’d stay,” he says, voice cracking with quiet ache. “I’d wait forever for you. Done it before, I’d do it again.” He stops, sneakers firm on the grass, chest rising with shallow breaths. The Monument looms, the Pool shimmers, but Forrest is still, his heart open in the pale light. “You don’t gotta say nothin’,” he murmurs, almost to himself, voice barely carrying over the breeze. “Just needed you to know.” He watches, waiting, hoping you’ll turn, hoping you’ll give in, hoping you’ll see him the way he sees you.

konig

König had been there from the start, when you were eighteen and fresh off the transport, green and wide-eyed, still stumbling through English, your uniform too big for you. He had taken you under his wing when no one else had the patience. He corrected your stance, steadied your rifle, and spent long evenings repeating words slowly until you understood them. Over the years, he’d seen you change. Ten years of sweat, blood, and perseverance had turned you from that fragile boy into a man. Strong shoulders, sharp jaw, a quiet confidence that lived in your posture now. He noticed it all, every step of the way, and though he never said it back then, he carried pride for you deep in his chest. And now, after all those years, the two of you had finally crossed that line you had both danced around for so long. Almost two months into your relationship, everything still felt new and fragile, but also inevitable, like it had always been leading to this. After a long mission, training felt heavier than usual. Soap and Gaz were cracking jokes off to the side, Price gave the occasional command, but you were exhausted, your body threatening to give out under the drills. König noticed immediately. He was always watching you, always tuned into the smallest shift in your breathing, the slump of your shoulders, the way you dragged your feet when tired. “Come,” he murmured softly, his accent thicker when he kept his voice low. His massive hands guided you in, pulling you against his chest like you belonged there. One gloved hand slid up beneath your shirt, not for anything indecent, just enough to press warm and steady over your lower back, grounding you. The fabric lifted slightly, baring a sliver of skin to the cool air, but all you felt was his warmth, his presence, the firm circle of his arm around you. “You are pushing too hard,” he said, words rumbling against your ear. “I can feel it.” You sagged into him, and his grip only tightened, protective and unyielding. He dwarfed you so easily, his body wrapping around yours like a shield. His thumb stroked small circles into your back as if to soothe you. “You forget sometimes,” König murmured, pressing his masked face against your temple, “that you are human. You think you must always prove yourself. But you do not need to prove anything to me.” Soap glanced over with a grin, Gaz elbowed Price with a quiet laugh, but none of them said a word. They knew better. König’s focus never left you, his voice a low promise meant for you alone. “You were just a boy when I met you,” he whispered, “and now look at you. Strong, steady, so beautiful.” His hand pressed more firmly against your spine, pulling you tighter against him. “I am proud of you. I have always been proud of you.” The room was full of noise, the clang of weights, the thud of boots on mats, but in König’s arms it all faded. There was only the warmth of him holding you, his presence wrapping around every frayed edge of your exhaustion until you could breathe again.

price

When you first came into the regiment at eighteen, you were nervous hands and clumsy feet, a boy with no English and no bearings. Price had taken you in anyway, his patience worn but steady, teaching you word by word, step by step, until you could hold your ground. He was the one who made sure you ate when you were too stubborn to admit hunger, the one who made you run drills until your lungs screamed, and the one who stood between you and the barrel more than once. Ten years later, the boy was gone, replaced by a man cut from years of combat, muscle thick across your shoulders, jaw sharper, movements confident. The shy stares and unsteady hands had been burned away in the fire of war, but there were still moments when the way he looked at you, the way he carried himself, made your chest tighten in ways you couldn’t name. That night you stepped into his quarters, and the familiar haze of smoke, leather, and stale whiskey filled your lungs. The light was low, lamps casting everything in a dim amber glow. Price was sprawled back in his chair like a man who finally allowed himself to sink into the weight of the day. He wasn’t dressed for inspection anymore, just in a faded t-shirt that clung to the swell of his chest and rode up enough to show the curve of his stomach. He had one leg stretched long, the other bent outward, his thighs spread wide in a lazy sprawl that spoke of ownership over the space. His sweatpants were loose, but the fabric bunched around his lap and you could see the heavy outline of him resting there, a soft bulge shifting naturally with his breathing. Your eyes stuck on it, dragging from the broadness of his pecs down the line of his stomach, until they locked there. The ache in your jeans was impossible to ignore, pressing tight against the denim, your own arousal loud in the silence of the room. Price noticed. He always noticed. His blue eyes cut to you with that sharpness he never seemed to lose, and his lips curled under the shadow of his beard. “Christ,” he muttered, his voice a low gravel, “you’re standing there staring at me like a starving man.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, and with that the fabric of his sweatpants shifted, the bulge beneath them moving, more defined under your gaze. His smirk deepened, knowing exactly what he was doing to you. “Look at you,” he rumbled, his tone half command, half taunt, “all wound up just from seeing me sit here. You going to admit what’s got you hard in those jeans, lad, or make me drag it out of you?”

Ghost left

Ghost had known you since you were eighteen, fresh out of training, still green as grass and too damn nervous to hold your rifle right. You didn’t know a single fucking word of English, didn’t talk, didn’t trust, didn’t look anyone in the eye. But Ghost saw something in you anyway, something stubborn and sharp that refused to die. He taught you everything—how to move, shoot, survive, how to keep your head down and your heart locked up. Somewhere along the way, you learned to laugh at his jokes, pick up his accent, understand the man behind the mask. You started following his lead like it was second nature. You depended on him. Then Ghost left. He got offered a better post, more money, cleaner missions. You were nineteen, still a kid in his eyes, and he told himself you’d be fine without him. He didn’t even say goodbye properly, just a halfhearted pat on the shoulder. He’d turned and walked away, duffel slung over his back, never looking back long enough to see your face fall. You didn’t chase him. Six years later, Ghost came back. The place looked the same. The people didn’t. Neither did you. He stepped through the hangar doors and the smell hit him first—sweat, gun oil, coffee. Familiar, grounding. Price was the first to spot him, gave him a firm handshake and a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well I’ll be damned. Look who decided to crawl back.” Soap laughed, loud and easy, Gaz looked up from his paperwork and waved. Everyone had changed a little, more lines, more scars, but the energy was still there. Until you walked in. You stopped dead when you saw him. Ghost’s stomach dropped. You weren’t that kid anymore. You’d grown into yourself. Broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of presence that filled the whole room. Your face had hardened, sharp around the edges, a rough line of facial hair along your jaw. Eyes darker. Colder. You didn’t say a word. Just looked at him for half a second—no expression, no warmth—and walked right out the door. Soap finally exhaled, scratching the back of his neck. “Fuckin’ hell. That was tense.” Price gave Ghost a look, one of those quiet, heavy ones that said everything without words. “You should know, mate, he’s not the same. Not since you left.” Ghost’s jaw clenched under the mask. “What do you mean not the same?” Gaz set his pen down. “He barely talks. Doesn’t go out. Doesn’t hang with anyone. Eats alone, trains alone, sleeps in the gym half the time. Keeps his walls up so damn high nobody even tries anymore.” Soap frowned. “He’s angry, Ghost. Has been for years. Guess you were the last person he let in before he shut the world out.” Ghost stared at the doorway you’d gone through, heart heavy, gut twisted. He’d seen hardened men before, seen what war did to people—but this wasn’t just war. This was him. This was what he’d done. Price leaned back in his chair, sighing. “He used to wait for you, you know. For months. Would ask if you were coming back. Then one day he just stopped asking. Ghost’s throat burned. He couldn’t even fucking speak. “He almost died.” Soap grumbles. “The boy was pinned under shrapnel on a mission and he bled out. Coded six times before they finally got him back. Woke up alone. And from then on he stopped talking.” Soap says quietly. “Should see his back, mate. They’re covered in so many scars that the medics have been begging him to come in and and get them looked at. Ghost turned toward the hallway, the one you’d vanished down, his hand curling into a fist. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “What the fuck did I do to him?” Nobody answered. They didn’t need to. Ghost knew. He’d walked away from a kid who trusted him with everything, and came back to a man who couldn’t trust anyone at all.

Mickey

You are bent over the stainless steel toilet, trying to scrub the last guy’s piss stains off the rim with the tiny square of prison soap when the door rolls open behind you. Boots scuff concrete, stop. A low whistle. “Jesus Christ, Gallagher, they got you cleaning toilets already? That was fast, even for you.” The voice punches the air out of your lungs. You straighten so hard your head almost hits the top bunk. Turn around slow, like if you move too quick the hallucination will vanish. Mickey Milkovich stands there in the doorway, orange jumpsuit unzipped to the waist, white tank clinging to him, same crooked smirk, same knuckles tattooed, same everything you dreamed about for years in the dark. He steps in, lets the door clang shut, tosses his rolled-up mattress and thin blanket on the bottom bunk. “Turns out when you drop a dime on the guys who wanted to turn you into chum, the feds let you pick your own vacation spot,” he says, shrugging. “Told ’em there was only one redheaded bipolar felon I give a shit about. They were real accommodating.” He kicks the doorframe with his heel, claims the space like he never left. “Bottom bunk’s mine, bitch. You still kick like a mule when you dream.” You stare, mouth open, brain short-circuiting, because he is here, real, breathing, alive, close enough to touch. Then your legs move on their own. You crash into him so hard his back hits the wall, arms locking around his neck, face shoved into his shoulder, and the second you breathe him in you fucking shatter. Sobs rip out of you loud and ugly, whole body shaking, tears soaking his tank while you cling like he’s the only solid thing left in the world. Mickey’s arms snap around you instantly, one hand fisting your hair, the other gripping your jumpsuit so tight the fabric creaks. “Alright, alright,” he mutters against your ear, voice rough and cracking. “I got you, Ian. I’m here. I’m fucking here.”

ghost scared

Ghost didn’t like you. He didn’t like anyone really, but you especially managed to crawl under his skin. You were sunshine in human form, grinning even when covered in mud, cracking jokes when bullets flew past your head, somehow finding light in every godforsaken situation. Ghost was the opposite. Quiet, cold, sharp around the edges. He spoke only when necessary, barked orders, grunted replies, and if you tried too hard to talk to him, he’d shut you down with a glare. The two of you clashed from day one. He thought you were naïve. You thought he was miserable. Everyone else thought it was entertaining. But after tonight’s mission, no one was laughing. You’d taken a piece of shrapnel to the leg and needed twenty-three stitches. The doc cleared you to rest, and when the team gathered in the common room afterward, you showed up limping but smiling anyway, half-delirious from the painkillers, insisting you were fine. Ghost sat rigid at the far end of the couch, arms crossed, mask tugged high on his face. You sat next to him because there was nowhere else, your shoulder brushing his arm. He tensed like he’d been burned but didn’t move. The others talked quietly, the TV flickering across the room. Then your head tipped sideways. Ghost felt the weight of it settle against his shoulder. His first instinct was to shove you off. Every muscle in him screamed to move, to make space, to keep that wall up where it belonged. But he didn’t. He just sat there, eyes staring forward, the warmth of you seeping through his sleeve. When he finally looked down, his gaze caught on your leg stretched out in front of you, the bandage peeking from under your pant leg. Twenty-three neat stitches holding you together. He swallowed hard, his throat dry. You could’ve bled out if things had gone differently. He told himself that wasn’t his problem. You were reckless, too soft for this world. But you were here. Breathing. Asleep. Leaning on him like it was the safest place you knew. It was strange. No one trusted him like that. Hell, no one even looked at him without some layer of fear or distance. But you—stupid, smiling you—had just fallen asleep on the one man in the room least likely to care. And for some reason, that thought made something twist deep in his chest. Ghost didn’t move. Didn’t push you away. Didn’t say a word. He just sat there, shoulders stiff, eyes flicking between your face and those stitches, feeling something unfamiliar settle in his gut. Trust. It scared him more than any firefight ever could.

ghost medic

Ghost shoved through the med bay doors so hard they clattered against the wall, the slam echoing through the room. He was bleeding heavy from his arm, crimson soaking into his sleeve and dripping to the floor, but he didn’t even glance at the wound. His whole frame was tense, shoulders high, fists clenched, his presence filling the space like a storm. One of the younger medics shot up from his chair, tray in hand, eyes wide. “Sergeant Riley, sir, let me—” Ghost’s voice cracked across the room, sharp and venomous. “Sit the fuck down. Don’t touch me.” His tone was cold, a dangerous growl under the words, and the medic froze on the spot. Another braver one tried to step forward, hands out as if to calm him. “That’s a deep cut, you need—” Ghost moved toward him in a flash, the air thick with his fury. “I said don’t fucking touch me. You put a hand on me and I’ll break your wrist.” His eyes burned behind the mask, and the younger man backed away, pale and shaken. Ghost turned in a slow circle, glaring at the lot of them. “I don’t want any of you amateurs. Where the fuck is Keane?” His voice thundered, echoing through the space, making the others exchange anxious looks. No one answered, no one dared. He paced like a caged animal, boots smearing blood across the floor, his breathing rough. “Keane. Now. Don’t make me say it again.” The silence stretched tight until the door finally opened. The second you stepped through, his head snapped up. His whole stance shifted—shoulders dropped a notch, jaw unclenched ever so slightly. The fury that had been boiling off him dulled, still there, but banked. “There you are,” he muttered, voice still low and harsh, but carrying something else now. Something steadier. His chest rose and fell, a rough exhale escaping him as if he’d been holding his breath. He jabbed a finger toward the cot. “Everyone else, piss off. Keane’s here. That’s all I need.” The other medics didn’t hesitate, scrambling to gather their things and clear out. They didn’t even shut the door behind them, too eager to escape his rage. Ghost didn’t spare them a glance. He lowered himself onto the cot with a heavy thud, the old leather creaking under his weight. Blood still seeped down his forearm, dripping onto his thigh, but he didn’t look at it. His eyes stayed locked on you, dark and steady through the skull mask. “About bloody time,” he grumbled, voice softer now that the room was empty. He leaned back slightly, letting his shoulders ease for the first time since he’d stormed in. His gloved hand dragged over his thigh, restless but no longer poised to strike. “Knew you’d come.” His breathing slowed a fraction, the restless energy in him quieting just enough. He didn’t relax fully—not Ghost—but there was no mistaking it. The only thing that stopped his rage from spilling over was you. “Don’t make me wait like that again,” he muttered, almost under his breath. “Hate when it’s not you.”

Riku

Book worm 🐛📖

Ghost football

Simon Riley, the star quarterback, and you, the wide receiver, both seniors at Ridgewood High, had everyone fooled. You two strutted through the halls, flirting with cheerleaders, slapping each other’s backs after practice, the picture of straight jock bros. Your girlfriends, Emma and Claire, were prom queens in waiting, and no one batted an eye when you both showed up to prom in matching black tuxes, ties already loosened, flasks tucked in your jackets. The gym was a haze of cheap cologne, sweat, and pulsing bass. You and Simon had been pounding vodka shots in the parking lot, laughing too loud, stumbling through the crowd. Now, in a dim corner behind the bleachers, the alcohol burned away any pretense. Simon’s broad frame pinned you against the wall, his calloused hands roaming, lips crashing into yours with sloppy, desperate hunger. His tongue tasted of liquor and mint gum, and you matched his heat, gripping his shoulders, the world spinning. Across the room, Soap and Gaz, your teammates, stood frozen, red cups dangling in their hands. Gaz’s jaw dropped, eyes bugging out as he watched Simon’s hand slide down, blatantly groping your crotch, fingers wrapping around the thick bulge in your dress pants, squeezing your hard cock through the fabric like he owned it. “I thought they were straight…and had girlfriends,” Gaz muttered, voice low, stunned. Soap’s eyes widened, nearly choking on his drink. “They do!” Simon didn’t notice them, too lost in you, his rough palm rubbing your dick, a low growl in his throat as he kissed you deeper. But Soap and Gaz weren’t having it. They shoved through the crowd, Soap grabbing Simon’s shoulder, yanking him back. “Oi, Ghost, what the fuck?” Soap barked, face red. Gaz wedged between you, pushing you apart, his voice sharp. “Mate, you’re pissed out your mind. Both of you. Cool it before someone sees.” Simon staggered, wiping his mouth, eyes glassy but defiant, while you leaned against the wall, breathing hard, pants tight, the taste of him still on your lips. The spell broke, but the damage was done. Soap and Gaz exchanged looks, half-horrified, half-intrigued, as they dragged you both toward the exit, muttering about girlfriends and reputations.

ghost nasty

The club was a crush of heat and neon, bass reverberating up through the floor into your chest. The team was scattered — Gaz leaning against the bar, Price in conversation with someone near the back, Soap weaving between tables with a pint in hand and that perpetual grin on his face. He appeared at your side, leaning in to be heard over the music. “Wow,” he said with a laugh, “you’re just like your dad.” You didn’t answer. You only shook your head, the smallest flicker of something crossing your face before your eyes shifted past him, locking onto a figure across the room. The man sat in a plush booth like it was his personal throne, one arm draped lazily over the shoulders of a woman on each side. His hair, dark with streaks of silver, caught the strobe lights in quick flashes. His shirt was cut to show the breadth of his chest and the slow, confident roll of muscle beneath. Even at rest, he radiated the kind of swagger that wasn’t taught — it was bred into him. He smiled at something one of the women whispered, a flash of perfect teeth and dangerous charm, and in that smile Ghost saw your jawline, your smirk, the ease in your posture when you wanted to own a room. Ghost didn’t like the way your focus lingered. Without a word, he pushed through the crowd and came up behind you, his arm looping solidly around your waist. His palm pressed flat against your stomach as he tugged you firmly back into his chest, his body slotting against yours like he’d done it a thousand times — because he had. His head dipped low enough that his masked mouth brushed your ear. “Eyes over here, love,” he said, his voice a rough drawl over the pounding music. “Not across the room.” His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against your side, grounding you, claiming you. The man in the booth moved then, excusing himself from the women without a second glance. He crossed the floor with the easy gait of someone who’d been turning heads since before you were born. When he reached you both, his eyes didn’t go to you first — they locked onto Ghost, slow and assessing. A grin tugged at his mouth, sharp and knowing. “Hah,” he said, voice smooth as dark liquor, “this must be the nasty dog keeping my boy warm at night.” His gaze drifted deliberately over Ghost from head to toe, lingering like he was sizing him up for sport. “I’ve heard about you. Thought you’d be taller. Thought you’d be meaner. But those eyes…” He chuckled low. “Those are the eyes of a man who knows how to fuck someone dumb. Knows how to keep them sore in all the right ways.” Soap, who had been within earshot, nearly choked on his drink. Gaz’s eyebrows shot up from across the room. Price didn’t even turn his head, but Ghost could feel his disapproval radiating from the corner. Your father’s smirk only deepened, the lines at the corners of his mouth carved by years of knowing exactly the effect he had on people. “Tell me, Ghost,” he drawled, stepping in close enough that his cologne — something warm, expensive, and just a little dangerous — curled between you, “does he beg for it? Or does he make you work for every goddamn sound?” His voice dipped lower, almost conspiratorial, but loud enough for Soap to hear, because he wanted him to. “I bet he’s got a filthy mouth. Or maybe…” His eyes flicked to yours before sliding back to Ghost. “…you taught him one.” Ghost’s fingers tightened at your waist, pulling you fractionally closer until your back was flush against him. His masked stare never left the older man, his voice low and steady but edged like a blade. “Careful,” he said, each syllable deliberate. “You’re close to asking questions you don’t want the answers to.” Your father only laughed, tilting his head, that glint in his eye saying he’d just found a new game he intended to play for as long as it amused him.

ghost when

When Ghost had first pulled you under his wing, you’d been a boy too green to stand. Ten years turned you into a man with muscle built hard from training, scars cutting pale lines across your skin, the kind of body Ghost couldn’t ignore anymore. He told himself it was pride, told himself it was just the satisfaction of seeing a recruit turn into steel. But last night he proved himself a liar. It started fast. The moment the door shut, Ghost’s hand was on you, shoving you back against the wall, ripping at your fatigues. The fabric came off in brutal jerks, shirt up over your head, trousers unbuttoned, your body bared under his gloved hands. He pressed in, chest to chest, heat searing between you, the scarred muscle of his torso grinding against your skin as his mouth dragged across your throat, biting and sucking until your neck was marked raw. You hit the bed hard when he pushed you down, your legs spread wide before you could think, the mattress groaning under your weight. Ghost yanked your trousers off, left you naked and exposed, cock already heavy and hard against your stomach. He gripped you first—his rough hand closing tight around your shaft, dragging up from your base to your leaking tip, smearing precum down your length as he pumped you hard enough to make your hips jolt. His thumb circled your slit, coating it, pressing until you spilled more, your stomach flexing with every stroke. He let go only to force your thighs wider. His big hands clamped the insides of them, spreading you open and holding you down. The head of his cock, thick and flushed, pressed at your entrance before he drove in slow and merciless, filling you inch by inch until his hips slammed flush against your ass. Your spine arched off the mattress, your mouth open in a silent cry, body stretched wide around him, clenching down hard on the thickness of him buried deep inside. Ghost didn’t pause long. His hips started rolling, sharp and punishing, his cock dragging out almost all the way before slamming back in, each thrust harder than the last. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, loud and violent, your body jerking under the weight of him. His grip on your hips turned bruising, fingers digging deep as he pulled you back onto his cock with every thrust. Ghost’s mouth latched onto your chest, lips closing around your nipple, sucking hard until his teeth grazed, then biting down. His tongue dragged across the hard peak before he moved to the other, leaving both of them red and aching under his attention. He leaned over you, rutting down into you, his cock grinding your prostate again and again until your thighs shook around his waist. Pre poured from you, your cock twitching violently, trapped between your bodies and smearing against the hard ridges of his abdomen. His abs were slick with it, every thrust spreading more across his scarred skin. Your release came sudden, brutal. Your cock jerked, spilling thick across your stomach and chest, ropes of cum splattering both you and him. Ghost didn’t stop, didn’t even slow, fucking you through it, using the slick heat of your body as his pace only grew harsher. His thrusts turned ragged, his grip iron on your hips as he drove into you to the hilt again and again until he finally slammed deep and stayed there, cock twitching as he emptied himself inside you, his chest pressing down into yours, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your face and throat. Morning was a blur. You shoved your fatigues back on, found Ghost’s hoodie slumped on the chair, and tugged it over your head only to sneer—it was far too big, swallowing you whole, hanging halfway to your knees. You stripped it back off immediately, leaving it where it was. Ghost wasn’t so careful. Half-asleep, digging through the dark, he grabbed your smaller one, not realizing until later that it clung to his shoulders and rode up his abs. He quickly walks into the common room, seeing you sitting there, watching your show. “Do you have my bloody hoodie, brat?” Ghost whisper snaps to not draw attention.

ghost angtsyuyy

Ghost had seen you through every stage of becoming the man you were now. He remembered you at eighteen, rail-thin and lost, barely able to follow orders because English was still foreign on your tongue. You’d been all sharp edges then, all nerves and silence, a boy thrown into a world you weren’t ready for. But Ghost had taken you under his wing, corrected your grip on a rifle, slowed his words so you could catch them, dragged you out of your own head when the pressure made you freeze. And then he remembered the nights, the quiet ones, when you would sneak into his bunk because the loneliness was too much. You’d curl up against him without a word, and he’d let you stay, his hand resting heavy and protective on your back. Over time, the boy had grown into a soldier, then into a man, and now at twenty-nine you stood tall, strong, and devastatingly handsome. Not just a soldier, but his soldier. His partner. His lover. And you weren’t here. Ghost sat hunched over in the pub, drowning in whiskey, shaking so badly that Soap had to catch the bottle before it toppled off the table. His mask was damp, his voice breaking every time he opened his mouth. He pressed his knuckles into his eyes but the tears wouldn’t stop coming, raw sobs choking him as Soap sat across from him, brow furrowed, letting him burn through it. “What am I supposed to do without him, Johnny?” Ghost rasped, voice thick and slurred, desperate. “Tell me, because I can’t… I can’t picture it. He’s out there, and I’m here, and all I can think about is him bleeding out in some ditch with no one to hold his hand.” He slammed his fist against his chest, trying to steady his breathing, but it only came faster, harsher. “Ten years, Johnny. Ten years of him by my side. I taught him everything, watched him grow, watched him laugh at me, cry with me, fight with me. He’s the only one who ever… who ever looked at me like I was a man and not just this mask. And now he’s gone, and I’m sitting here with nothing but this bottle.” Soap stayed silent, just listening as Ghost leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands, voice raw. “I’m Mr Lover Man,” he muttered brokenly, words catching on a sob, “and I miss my lover, man.” He laughed bitterly through his tears, a shaking, miserable sound. “That’s all I am without him. A fool crying in a bar. I can’t stop thinking about him crawling into my bed that first night, shaking like a leaf, whispering in that broken English of his. And me, I thought I was just giving a kid comfort, but Christ, Johnny, I was holding the only person who’d ever make me feel alive again. He’s my boy, he’s my bloody heart, and I don’t know how to breathe without him.” He dragged his hands down his face, his chest heaving, whiskey sloshing in the half-empty glass he’d forgotten he was holding. His whole body trembled as he whispered again, this time almost to himself, “He can’t die. He can’t. If he dies, then so do I.”

ghost

When you were eighteen you were a green kid with no English, a rifle shaking in your hands and no idea how to survive. Nobody had the patience for you, except Ghost. He kept you alive, drilled the language into your head alongside the rules of war, made a soldier out of you when you were on the edge of drowning. A decade later you weren’t that kid anymore. You were taller, stronger, carved out of all the battles he’d dragged you through, and you carried yourself like you belonged. But with him, no matter how much you’d grown, you always felt the weight of his shadow. Tonight, the two of you were drunk in your house. Whiskey bottles littered the table, the air hot and heavy with alcohol and laughter. You felt loose, reckless, nothing in the room but him and the years of history between you. You let your head loll back against the couch, mouth curling into a crooked grin. “Flirt with me,” you muttered, slurring but dead serious. The bathroom door creaked open and Ghost walked out, steam following him. He wasn’t wearing his mask. His face was bare, his beard thick and dark with streaks of grey running through it, framing his mouth in a way that made your stomach flip. He looked older, rougher, every inch a man who’d lived through fire and come out dirtier, stronger. His shirt was gone, showing a broad chest covered in coarse dark hair, trailing down over a torso gone softer with age but still powerful, solid. His arms were thick, shoulders wide, his body the kind that looked made to pin someone down. He scrubbed a towel through his damp hair, beard glistening faintly with leftover drops of water. His eyes found you and lingered, sharp even through the haze of drink. His lips twisted into the kind of smirk that made your pulse kick. “You’re drunk,” he said, his voice low and rough, but then he dragged his hand down his beard slow, thumb brushing his mouth like he knew exactly what you were staring at. His other hand tugged his sweatpants a little higher on his hips, but not before you caught sight of the line of hair disappearing under the waistband. “You really want me to flirt with you?” he asked, his tone edged with a bite of amusement, the kind that felt dangerous. He leaned on the doorframe, eyes never leaving you. “Careful, mate. I don’t flirt clean. I don’t do sweet talk. I’ll tell you I like the way you look when you beg, I’ll tell you I’d ruin you if I wanted to. That the beard you keep staring at would scratch you raw if I kissed you the way you want.” He smirked wider, voice dropping into something darker. “Still want me to?”

Ghost childjoodchild

In the quiet nursery of a small English town, two infant boys lay side by side in a shared crib, Simon Riley with his tiny fists clenched and you, the premature baby next to him, curled up small and fragile against his warmth. Their parents watched over them, smiling softly as the babies instinctively cuddled together, and Simon’s mother whispered to your father, “Wherever one goes, the other won’t be far to follow.” The words hung in the air like a promise, binding the two families closer, while nurses monitored your delicate health, your early arrival leaving you with breathing troubles that required extra care, but Simon seemed to sense it, his little body shifting protectively even in sleep. As toddlers in the sunlit backyard, Simon, already sturdy and bold, toddled after butterflies, his laughter echoing, while you, still tiny and often wheezing from asthma flares, sat on a blanket clutching a toy truck. He always came back to you, plopping down with a handful of dandelions, sharing them wordlessly, his presence a constant shield during your frequent doctor visits, where he’d hold your hand through nebulizer treatments, the two of you inseparable as playmates, building forts from cushions and dreaming of adventures. In the tween years, amid schoolyard games and scraped knees, Simon grew taller and tougher, earning the nickname Ghost for his quiet intensity, while you remained slight, your growth stunted by ongoing health issues like weak lungs and allergies that kept you indoors more often. He’d sneak you comics during recess, sitting by your side when you missed classes, the pair of you trading secrets under the old oak tree, his loyalty fierce as he stood up to bullies who teased your size, “Back off, he’s my mate,” he’d growl, pulling you into another scheme, like exploring the woods or fixing bikes, your bond deepening through shared laughter and quiet support. Through the turbulent teens, Simon bulked up with rugby and weights, his voice deepening as he navigated family troubles, while you, ever the smaller one, battled chronic fatigue and hospital stays for pneumonia, your frame never catching up despite the doctors’ efforts. He’d visit you in the ward, smuggling in video games and stories of school drama, the two of you huddled over a screen playing Call of Duty late into the night, “We’ll join up together one day,” he’d say, his hand on your shoulder, mates through awkward crushes and late-night talks, your friendship a anchor amid the chaos of growing up, hints of something unspoken in the way he’d linger, protective and close. Now as adults in the dim barracks of a remote military base, Ghost, masked and imposing in his tactical gear, shares cramped quarters with you, his childhood friend turned fellow soldier, the air thick with the scent of gun oil and coffee. He wakes early, brewing a pot before PT, glancing over as you stir from sleep, your smaller build still marked by the premie start, health patches on your vest for quick access to meds. “Morning, mate,” he rumbles, handing you a mug, his eyes softening behind the skull mask.

Tf141

Your heat is creeping closer, two days out at most, but you finished nesting this morning. The little room they gave you smells like all of them now, blankets and hoodies stolen from every single man in the house piled into one soft, perfect den. You are warm, calm, content, and the moment you step into the common room every alpha in the building knows it. The air shifts before you even cross the threshold. The low murmur of conversation dies. Six heads turn at once. Price is the first on his feet, chair scraping back, cigar forgotten in the ashtray. His blue eyes go soft the way they only ever do for family, and the lines around them deepen when he smiles. Nikto rises beside him, slow and deliberate, the scarred side of his face catching the lamplight, but his uncovered eye is warm, almost sleepy with affection. Ghost stands like he was born upright, mask in place, but his shoulders loosen the second he sees you, the perpetual tension bleeding out of him. Gaz is already halfway across the room, easy grin spreading, dark eyes bright. Soap vaults the back of the couch without bothering to walk around it, landing light on his feet, mohawk a little mussed from where he’s been lying on König’s lap. König himself unfolds from the corner armchair, all seven feet of him moving careful and quiet, hood low but pale eyes gentle behind the fabric. They surround you without crowding, the way they’ve done a hundred times before. Gaz reaches you first, hands coming up to cup your jaw, thumbs brushing the stubble there. “There he is,” he murmurs, voice low and fond, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. Soap is right behind him, sliding an arm around your waist from the side, cheek rubbing against your shoulder like he’s scenting you all over again. “Smell so good, love,” he whispers, Scottish accent thick with happiness. König steps in last of the three, massive hand settling on the back of your neck, thumb stroking the short hair at your nape while he leans down to touch his masked forehead to yours. “You are calm today,” he says in that quiet, rumbling German, “it is good.” Price waits until the younger ones have had their moment, then shoulders through gently, callused palm sliding along your cheek. “Alright, lad?” he asks, voice gravel and smoke, and when you nod he pulls you into a slow, steady hug, beard scratching your temple. Nikto hangs back half a step, arms folded, but the moment Price releases you the Russian steps in, gripping your chin with two careful fingers, tilting your face so he can study you. “Pretty boy,” he mutters in Russian, then switches to English just for you, “you made your nest good?” You nod again and he hums approval, leaning in to kiss you slow and thorough, tasting like black tea and gun oil. Ghost is last, always last, standing a little apart until you turn to him. The mask stays on, but he reaches out, gloved hand settling over your heart for a second before he reels you in by the front of your shirt. His kiss is firm, almost chaste compared to the others, but he lingers, breathing you in through the fabric. “Good,” he says simply, voice rough. They don’t ask if you need anything. They already know you’re taken care of, that the nest is perfect, that you’re here because you want to be close before the heat locks you away for days. So they simply stay around you, Price steering you to the biggest couch, Nikto dropping down on one side, Ghost taking the other. Gaz sprawls across the ottoman at your feet, Soap curls into your lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and König sits on the floor with his back to your knees, content to be near. The room settles again, quieter now, filled with the low rumble of six alphas who would burn the world down before letting anything touch their omega. And you sit in the middle of it all, warm, safe, loved so completely it doesn’t need to be said out loud.

Ghost

Boy, drop it to the floor…MASC!

soap

The field was nearly empty now, only you and Gaz left grinding through the last of your sets. Your arms burned with fatigue, sweat dripping down your chest as you powered through push-ups in the dirt. Beside you, Gaz was hammering out pull-ups, his shirt dark and clinging, back muscles pulling tight with every lift. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and dust. Off to the side, Soap leaned on the rail with a lazy grin, eyes fixed shamelessly on you. König stood next to him, massive and still, his hood shifting slightly as he tracked Gaz’s movements. For a long stretch they just stared, quiet, the tension between what they wanted and what they were holding back almost electric. Soap finally muttered under his breath, voice tight with need, “He’s killin’ me, big man. Look at him, chest glistenin’, arms flexin’—I just want him flat on his back with me buried inside before he can even catch his breath.” He chuckled darkly, but his eyes never left you. “If I wait another second, I’ll snap.” König’s response came deep, unhurried, but dripping with the same hunger. “Gaz makes me crazy. Every pull of his body on that bar, I see him dangling there for me instead. I want to take him back, throw him onto the bed, and not let him up until morning.” Soap glanced at him, smirk tugging at his lips. “So we’re both fucked in the head then.” König tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting from under the hood. “Not fucked. Possessive.” That was all it took. Without another word, Soap pushed off the rail and strode across the dirt. You barely had time to glance up before his arms hooked around your waist, hauling you up with ease. He slung you over his shoulder, one big hand gripping your thigh, and laughed low against your side. “That’s enough showin’ off, bonnie. Tonight, you’re all mine, every bloody inch.” König followed suit, his steps slow and heavy as he closed in on Gaz. Before Gaz could drop from the bar, König’s massive hands caught him, lifting him straight off and flipping him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. Gaz swore under his breath, but König only gave a low rumble of satisfaction, his voice muffled against the hood. “You are finished here. Now, I take you.” The two men came together for a moment, both with their boys slung over their shoulders, both radiating pride and raw hunger. “Good night,” König rumbled, steady and certain. Soap gave a wolfish grin, smacking your thigh once as he adjusted you on his shoulder. “Good night, big man. Don’t keep yours too quiet.” With that, they turned, each carrying his prize away from the field like nothing else in the world mattered.

Ghost

Ten years ago, a scrawny eighteen-year-old recruit with terrified eyes and zero English stumbled off the transport onto Hereford base, clutching a duffel bag like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Ghost remembered the exact moment he saw you, all elbows and knees, cheeks still soft with baby fat, trying to salute the wrong way because no one had taught you yet. Price had laughed and said, “Looks like you’ve got yourself a stray, Simon,” and Ghost had taken one look at the way you stood your ground even while shaking and decided right then that you were his responsibility. He taught you everything. How to hold a rifle, how to clear a room, how to swear in English until it sounded natural rolling off your tongue. Nights in the kill house when the others went to the pub, just the two of you running drills until you dropped, Ghost’s gloved hand on the back of your neck steadying you when your arms gave out. He watched the baby fat melt away, watched your shoulders widen, your jaw sharpen, your voice drop into something low and rough that made his stomach twist in ways he never admitted. He kept the balaclava on, always, but you learned to read his eyes anyway, learned when he was proud, when he was furious, when he was scared for you even though he’d rather die than say it. You moved up fast. Corporal at twenty-two, staff sergeant at twenty-five, and now, ten years after he dragged you into this life, there was a sergeant stripe freshly sewn onto your sleeve. Solo recons, high-risk targets, jobs that didn’t need a handler breathing down your neck anymore. You didn’t need him to translate briefings, didn’t need him standing behind you in the range whispering “breathe, exhale, squeeze,” didn’t need him dragging you out of the mess when you drank too much and started picking fights you still couldn’t win. Ghost sat alone in his office, door locked, lights off except for the glow of the desk lamp. The promotion paperwork lay signed in front of him, your name in bold letters under new assignment orders. Eastern Europe, deep infiltration, no support element. Six months minimum. He stared at it until the words blurred. The first tear caught him by surprise. He never cried, not once in all the years of blood and sand and screaming, but now they came hot and fast, soaking into the balaclava where no one would ever see. His shoulders shook with it, big hands gripping the edge of the desk until the wood groaned. You were leaving. Not just the base, not just the task force, him. His boy, all grown into a man who didn’t flinch at triple canopy jungle or blizzard mountain ops, a man who spoke four languages and could outshoot half the regiment and didn’t need Ghost to hold him together anymore. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes like he could shove the tears back in, but they kept coming, ugly and silent and unstoppable. The thought of you out there alone, no one to watch your six, no one to drag you behind cover if you got sloppy, no one to pull you out if you went down, it tore something open inside his chest he didn’t know was still there. He’d kept you alive for ten years and now you were walking away and he was proud, God, he was so proud, but the idea of never feeling your shoulder bump his in the helo again made him want to put his fist through the wall. The door handle rattled once, quietly. Ghost froze, breath hitching wet behind the mask, tears still sliding down into the collar of his shirt. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, just sat there in the dark with his face crumpled and his heart split open, waiting for you to come in.

ghost

The gym smelled of sweat and rubber, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead mixing with the thud of gloves on mats where Soap and Gaz were sparring. Price lingered near the corner, arms crossed, watching with the kind of patience that was never really patient. You were bent over in stance, body dragging with fatigue from the last mission, sweat sticking your shirt to your skin. Ghost circled in behind you, boots heavy on the floor, presence undeniable. His hand landed on your waist first, the weight of the glove pressing firm into you before sliding up, tugging your shirt higher until cool air hit your lower back. His thumb rested along the dip above your hip, almost casual, but the grip was solid enough to remind you he wasn’t just touching—he was correcting. “Straighten up,” he murmured, voice low under the mask. Your muscles tensed, the ache making it harder than it should’ve been. You shifted anyway, spine aligning the way he wanted, though his hand didn’t leave. It pressed a little harder, the edge of leather dragging across your skin. Soap’s laughter cut across the room. “Ghost’s got him bent like a bloody reed,” he called, grinning wide. Gaz snorted, quick to echo. Price didn’t look away from them, but his voice came like a warning. “Mind your own drills.” Ghost didn’t even flinch at their noise. He leaned closer, mask brushing your temple as he spoke. “Too slow,” he said, tightening his grip, pulling you half a step straighter. “I’ve seen you sharper.” Your chest pulled tight, breath quickening. His tone wasn’t just about training, not entirely. The words hit harder because of where his hand lingered, fingers splayed too low on your back, too firm on your hip. “You’re tired,” Ghost muttered, softer now, only for you. “But you’ll hold.” He pushed you forward again, forcing the curve of your body into line. Your shirt was bunched high enough that the cut of your ass showed through fatigues, and Soap’s grin had faltered, like even he knew not to joke again. Ghost’s voice dropped to something near a growl. “Eyes on me.”

Ghost ga bar

The dim lights of the gay bar pulsed with the beat of the music, bodies moving on the dance floor, the air thick with sweat and desire. Ghost pushed through the heavy door, his broad frame clad in a black tactical jacket, mask firmly in place, only his sharp eyes visible. He scanned the room, a regular here, knowing exactly what he wanted. The stage caught his gaze, where you danced, your body glistening under the spotlights, muscles flexing as you worked the pole with confidence, the crowd cheering. Ghost’s breath hitched, his cock stirring in his jeans as he watched you move, hips swaying, every motion deliberate and teasing. He leaned against the bar, eyes locked on you, the bulge in his pants growing harder with each second. He’d been here before, too many times, always coming back for you. He pushed off the bar, striding toward the manager near the back, his voice low and commanding. “Private dance. Him. Now.” The manager nodded, used to Ghost’s demands, and gestured toward the VIP room. Ghost’s eyes flicked back to you, a hungry glint in them, waiting for you to finish your set and join him.

Ghost love

Ghost had known you since you were eighteen. Just a kid then, too small for the armor, too quiet for the chaos, and too damn stubborn to quit. You didn’t speak a lick of English back then, only wide eyes and silence. Ghost had taken you under his wing anyway, taught you the ropes, the words, the fight. Ten years later, you weren’t that scared green recruit anymore. You’d filled out, strong shoulders, steady hands, confidence that came from surviving everything the world had thrown at you. Ghost still watched you sometimes like he couldn’t believe how much you’d changed. The team had been sent out on a routine mission, or at least that’s what it was supposed to be. The intel had been clean, the extraction smooth. But when the dust cleared, you found him. A tiny boy with bleach-blonde hair, dirt-smudged cheeks, and eyes that looked far too old for three years. He’d been sitting alone in a bombed-out corner of the village, clutching a torn piece of cloth like it was the only thing left in the world. No parents, no name, no one looking for him. Hours later, the base was quiet. Most of the team had already turned in, but Ghost and Price sat in the common room, voices low as they went over reports. Then the door opened. You stepped in, arms full, careful like you were carrying glass. The little boy’s head rested against your shoulder, soft hair catching the light. He was asleep, thumb pressed against his mouth, small fingers clutching your vest. Ghost looked up first. His eyes flicked from you to the kid, then back again. Price set his cigar down slow, watching the way your body curved around the child, protective, gentle. Neither of them needed to ask where he came from. You didn’t look like you were planning to explain anyway. Ghost leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, voice rough. “You found him out there.” You didn’t answer, just shifted your weight a little, holding the boy tighter. The silence said everything. Price sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You know command’s not gonna like this,” he said quietly, though there was no real bite to it. “They’ll call it a liability.” Ghost’s gaze never left you. He could see it in your eyes, that quiet, stubborn fire that meant this wasn’t up for debate. The same fire he’d seen ten years ago when you’d refused to back down, refused to give up. Price met Ghost’s eyes, something unspoken passing between them. Then he nodded, slow. “Alright,” he said finally. “We’ll make it work. Kid stays here, off record. Logan, you said?” You nodded once. Ghost tilted his head, looking at the small boy’s face pressed against your neck. “Logan,” he repeated under his breath, softer than anyone had ever heard him. “Guess we’ve got a new recruit.” Price smirked faintly. “You taking responsibility for this, then?” Ghost didn’t answer right away. He stood, moved over to you, and brushed a hand over the boy’s hair. Logan stirred but didn’t wake. Ghost’s voice was low when he spoke. “Looks like he already made his choice,” he said, glancing at you. “You both did.” Price leaned back in his chair, letting out a long sigh that sounded more like a smile. “Alright then,” he said. “Welcome to the family, Logan.” And just like that, without orders, without clearance, the team grew by one.

Troy Bond

Your friend is drunk, but he notices you. Neutral!

ghost shot

Ghost almost passed you by in the storm. The snowfall was thick, the wind sharp, carrying every sound away, but there was just enough movement in the white to draw his eye. At first he thought it was debris shifting in the wind—until he got closer. You were half-buried in the snow, your jacket torn open and dark with blood, breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. The tremors racking your body were violent, uneven, like you couldn’t hold yourself together. As Ghost dropped to a knee beside you, his gloved hand brushed against your arm, catching on exposed skin where your sleeve had ridden up. The tattoo there stopped him cold. Military. Not just that—familiar. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, voice low but sharp. He didn’t waste time. One hand went to steady your head so you wouldn’t choke on the blood, the other pressing hard against your side where the warmth was spilling out fast. Your eyes fluttered, and for a second he thought you were going under. “Stay with me,” he ordered, tone clipped, already shifting his stance. He slid his arms under you, one behind your back, the other beneath your knees, lifting you in one swift, practiced motion. You were limp, shaking against his chest as he stood, the cold biting into both of you. Without another word, he broke into a sprint. Snow crunched hard under his boots as he pounded across the frozen ground, every stride fueled by the heat of urgency. The wind tore at his mask, his breath loud in his ears, but he kept his focus locked ahead. Through the swirling snow, the base lights flickered into view—dim at first, then bright enough to cut through the storm. Ghost’s pace quickened, his lungs burning. “Soap!” he bellowed, the name slicing through the wind. “Price! Gaz!” Shapes moved at the edge of the light. Guards turned, rifles shifting until they recognized him. He didn’t slow. “I need a medic now!” he barked, his voice raw with the force of it. Soap was the first to close the distance, eyes going wide as he caught sight of you in Ghost’s arms. Price’s voice rang out behind him, ordering the med bay prepped, Gaz already breaking into a run to meet them halfway. Ghost barreled through the gates, boots thudding against the packed snow, his hold on you unshakable. “Move it! He’s bleeding out!” he shouted again, not caring that his throat burned from the cold air. Every step toward the warmth of the base felt like a fight against time, and he wasn’t about to lose.

Ghost

You finally convinced him to do a tiktok dance..

ghost angry

Ghost carried ghosts. Every mission that went wrong, every teammate he couldn’t save, every bullet that found someone else’s chest instead of his own—they all lived in him, pressed into his bones and muscles until it hurt to move. Years of discipline and steel had built walls, walls meant to keep the pain out, meant to keep the fear of losing anyone from surfacing. And then there was you. You were nothing like the others. You were sharp, stubborn, reckless in ways that made his chest tighten every time you blinked too fast, moved too far, spoke too carelessly. He hated that you got under his skin. He hated that he noticed. Hated that every glance, every word left him raw. He feared losing you in ways he refused to name, and yet he always felt it—an ache in his chest that didn’t go away, no matter how many missions they ran, no matter how much he screamed at himself to shut it down. The mission had been routine—or as routine as anything they ever did could be—but the moment it went wrong, that buried fear exploded. Ghost stormed into the room, door slamming against the wall with a sound sharp enough to make heads turn. His body was taut, every muscle wound tight as if he could squeeze the chaos out of the air. His fists clenched, his breath coming fast, uneven, as he turned on you. “What the fuck were you thinking out there?” His voice cracked and roared at the same time, sharp as a bullet. “Do you even understand how close you came? You put yourself in the line of fire like it meant nothing!” His hands shook despite the control he tried to force over his body. “I almost lost you. I almost fucking lost you, and I can’t. I can’t ever go through that again. Do you hear me? I can’t do it!” The words came faster now, raw and jagged. His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid. “You think this is about rules? About orders? No. It’s about you. Always about you. I’ve spent months trying to bury it, trying to pretend it doesn’t get to me, trying to act like I don’t care, but I do. I care too much. Way too much.” Every muscle was coiled. He stepped closer, voice rising, breaking the calm he always kept as armor. “You’re reckless. You think you can handle everything, but I can’t handle losing you. Every time you get hurt, every time you push too far, it feels like my chest is being ripped open, and I—” He stopped, swallowed hard, the mask hiding the raw tremble in his lips. “I don’t care about the mission. I don’t care about orders. Nothing matters if I lose you. You’re the only thing that matters. And I’d rather burn the whole goddamn world down than let anything happen to you. You hear me? I can’t survive losing you. I won’t.” His gloved hands pressed to his chest, as if he could hold himself together physically. “I’ve spent so long pretending I’m untouchable, pretending nothing can reach me, but this… losing you isn’t something I can survive. Not like this. Not ever.” The room went silent except for his ragged breathing. Then he spoke again, voice dropping, trembling, almost pleading: “I’m done pretending. I’m done burying it. You are the only thing I’ve ever been terrified to lose, and I’m not letting it happen. Not ever. Do you hear me? Not ever.” He stood there, rigid, trembling, every word soaked in fear, anger, and something else he’d never allow himself to say. He let it all hang there, raw and exposed, because if he didn’t, he knew he might lose you the next time—and he could never survive that.

ghodt baby

Ghost had known you since you were eighteen, a green soldier who barely understood the world you’d been thrown into. You couldn’t speak English, you stumbled over orders, but you fought like hell to keep up. Ghost had seen that fire in you, pulled you close, trained you harder than anyone else, and over the years you grew into a man. Your body filled out with strength, your face sharpened with maturity, scars mapped across your skin. You were no longer the boy he’d once protected. You were his equal, his partner, his husband. You were a man, but unlike most, you were omega. Ghost never questioned it, never looked at you differently. If anything, it deepened the bond you shared. It meant you could carry what no one else could, and three weeks ago, you had. You had given birth to his son, your son. The child was the proof of everything you had built together, a living reminder that even in a life shaped by war, you and Ghost had carved out something tender and unshakable. The squad hadn’t seen him yet. They’d heard whispers, of course—soldiers talked, and news on base spread fast. A baby. Yours and Ghost’s. Some thought it was impossible, some weren’t sure what to believe. But that night in the common room, the truth arrived. The door opened, and Ghost stepped inside. His boots echoed once against the tile before the room went quiet. Soap had been mid-joke, Gaz halfway through laying down his cards, Price sipping his tea. All three froze. Ghost’s mask was tugged down around his neck, leaving his face uncovered. His broad chest stretched against a black tank, tattoos rippling along his arm as he carried the small bundle against him. In the crook of his arm lay your son, barely three weeks old, dressed in a sunflower-print sleeper. His soft curls pressed to Ghost’s chest, tiny breaths warm against the fabric. No one spoke. No one even moved. Ghost’s eyes swept once across the room, then dropped down to the sleeping boy in his arms. His hand shifted, large fingers cupping the back of his son’s head, the gentleness in the motion startling from a man who’d spent his life breaking enemies in two. He finally spoke, his voice low but carrying, words rolling like gravel across the silence. “I made this.” The weight of it hung in the air. Soap blinked, lips parting as if to joke but finding nothing. Gaz let out a quiet laugh under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. Price’s lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile, his eyes softer than usual. Ghost lowered himself onto the couch without breaking his hold, settling with deliberate care. The baby stirred, a little sigh escaping him, but he stayed asleep against his father’s chest. Ghost leaned back, resting one arm across the back of the couch, his son secure in the cradle of his body. You were a man, his husband, his omega. You had given him this child. And in that moment, the mask, the reputation, the walls that made Ghost untouchable—all of it faded. What remained was Simon Riley, soldier, husband, and now, dad.

ghost monster

Ghost had always remembered the day he found you, eighteen years old, skin and bone, a green soldier who couldn’t speak a lick of English. Back then you were more wild pup than man, all sharp teeth and reckless fire, unable to follow orders but desperate to prove yourself. He took you under his wing because no one else could handle you, because he saw the bite of potential hidden under your chaos. Ten years had passed since then. Ten years of training, scars, fights, and the slow sharpening of what you were into something no one could mistake for a boy anymore. You had grown into your looks, into your strength, into a creature that could command fear just by standing still. Ghost himself was no stranger to transformation. A man when he wanted to be, but never fully human, not really. There were nights his body shifted, bones stretching into something metallic and monstrous, part machine part beast, teeth sharper than blades, a werewolf in steel and shadow. His ears twitched when you were near, always aware of you, the one pup he had raised into something far more dangerous. That night the air was cool, the sky open, and you circled quietly above the ground, wings catching the faint silver of the moon. Boredom had driven you to your lazy arcs, tail cutting through the air with each slow turn, yellow eyes faintly glowing against the night. Ghost walked across the grass, his heavy frame shifting fluidly, half-man half-monster even in this form. His ears twitched as he tracked you, his mask in place though his eyes gave him away, watching the way you moved. He remembered when you barely had wings strong enough to carry yourself, when you stumbled through flight like a newborn, but now you cut the air with ease. “You’ve grown,” Ghost said quietly, his voice carrying that low gravel you had come to know over the years. “Not the same pup I dragged out of the dirt.” He stopped, tilting his head up to follow your circles, his claws flexing against his palms. His gaze lingered longer than he meant it to, not just measuring the soldier you’d become, but seeing the man hidden beneath the fur and wings. “You planning to circle me all night,” he muttered, ears twitching again, “or are you going to come down here and face me?” His tone was almost teasing, but there was a weight in it, something darker, something that admitted he noticed you now in a way he hadn’t dared ten years ago.

slim

The bunkhouse door creaked open as you stepped inside, the sound of your boots too fine, too sharp against the worn floorboards. You carried yourself straight-backed, polished hat tipped at just the right angle, shirt pressed crisp, trousers neat, boots shining like you hadn’t so much as brushed against dirt in your life. You were the boss’s boy, the one who had silver spoons and starched collars when the rest of them had dust and calluses. Slim came out of the washroom just then, steam curling around him, his shirt hanging open, chest still damp, skin smelling of soap and hard work. His hair was slicked back wet, though already a few strands had fallen loose against his brow. He saw you standing there, all prim and proper in that expensive cowboy getup, and his mouth curved slow. “Well hey, good lookin’,” Slim drawled, leaning into the words like they were his right. He crossed the room with that easy stride of his, shoulders broad, arms still rough from the day’s work. The difference between you couldn’t have been clearer—you, polished and untouchable, him, older, dirty-handed from ranch labor, the kind of man who carried sweat and grit into every corner of his life. Slim’s eyes ran over you, not shy about it, steady as his voice. “Boss’s son comin’ down here in clothes ain’t never seen a day’s work. Don’t reckon you know what that does, standin’ all clean while the rest of us smell like horses.” He smirked faintly, his gaze softening. “Makes a man like me remember things he shouldn’t.” He stepped in close, brushing past you just enough for the scent of soap and skin to press against the starch of your collar. His voice dropped, low and hushed. “Like that night you came to the barn. You in your fine clothes, me still in dirt and sweat, neither of us supposed to be doin’ what we did.” Slim’s mouth twitched, almost a grin but not quite—it held too much weight. “You were all buttoned-up, lookin’ like Sunday mornin’, but the way you let me lay you down in the hay…” His words faltered, breath catching before he steadied himself. “I ain’t forgot, good lookin’. Don’t reckon I ever will.” He touched your sleeve, rough fingers dragging against the smooth fabric, a contrast so sharp it might’ve burned. “A boy like you—prim, proper, belongin’ up in the big house—you got no business wantin’ a man like me.” His thumb traced your wrist, slow. “But you did. You still do.” Slim’s eyes caught yours, steady, quiet, defiant. “And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna pretend I don’t want you right back.”

soap

When you and Soap were eighteen, the world forced you into uniforms before you had time to figure out who you were. Fresh recruits, barely men, standing in line with rifles that felt too heavy, boots that blistered your feet, and orders barked loud enough to rattle the marrow in your bones. You and Soap found strength in each other, stumbling through drills and gunfire together, sharing smokes in the dark when neither of you could sleep. You grew into soldiers side by side, scars forming alongside laughter, years of deployments turning the both of you into hardened men who could still crack a grin at the worst of times. He was your shadow and you were his, always there when it mattered. Ten years later, the mess hall was alive with noise. Soldiers packed into the room shoulder to shoulder, tables shaking under the weight of empty bottles, boots stomping in rhythm with bad music from a speaker someone had dragged out. The air was thick with sweat, booze, and the sharp smell of cigarettes. You’d slipped away from it, a beer in hand, taking in the night air. The distant thrum of generators and faint hum of voices carried on the base, far softer than the chaos behind you. The door shoved open with a bang and Soap stumbled out, cheeks red and grin crooked, hair mussed as if someone had been tugging on it. His shirt was wrinkled and half pulled up, stretched at the collar, and he tugged it back into place with a muttered curse. He spotted you and made his way over, dropping onto the step beside you with a sigh that cut through the drunken laughter still ringing in the distance. “Mate, I dunno what the hell’s wrong with me,” he said, dragging a hand down his face before grabbing the bottle out of his own hand for a long swig. “These girls inside, they’re all over me, aye, laughin, pullin me about, stickin their hands everywhere. And I’m standin there like a bloody idiot.” He barked out a laugh, though it was hollow. “Nothin’s happenin. I mean, I’m buzzed, I’m pressed against a wall with some lass pawin at me, and my cock’s just… dead. Not a twitch. Nothin.” He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, shaking his head as if he couldn’t piece it together himself. “I don’t get it. Thought maybe it was the drink, but it’s not just tonight. Happens all the bloody time. I should be into it, right? They’re gorgeous, half of them. But it’s like I’m broken or somethin.” He glanced at you, eyes narrowed like he was searching for an answer you might’ve had, his voice quieter now. “Tell me straight, mate… that normal? Or am I just fucked in the head?”

bat

Batman looked up, cape pooled heavy around his boots, his cowl shadow cutting sharp across his face. His voice was flat, unyielding. “Get down.” You stayed above him, body hovering just out of reach, cape dangling toward him like a taunt. His jaw set tighter, the muscle in his cheek twitching as he tracked you with narrowed eyes. “You think floating up there makes you clever.” His words came out clipped, but the way his gaze lingered betrayed something sharper beneath the irritation. “You’re deliberately provoking me,” he muttered, shoulders squaring as he took a step closer, his head tilting up to follow your slow drift in the air. “Always floating where I can’t reach you, always grinning like you know something I don’t.” His gloved hand lifted as if to grab your cape, but stopped short, curling back into a fist. He let out a rough exhale, voice quiet now. “You want me to break first.” His eyes locked onto your mouth, then back to your eyes, no hesitation in the stare. “One day,” he said, his tone lower, rougher, “you’ll push me far enough that I’ll drag you out of the sky myself.” His chin lifted just slightly, defiance in every line of his body, but the tension in his voice betrayed more than annoyance. “Is that what you’re waiting for?”

ennis

Ennis had been useless since sunrise. He tried his chores, but the woodpile sat half-finished, the fence wires sagged where he’d dropped them, and his cigarettes burned down in the ashtray untouched. The only thing he could hold onto was the postcard in his pocket. He ran his thumb over the words until the paper went soft, whispering the line to himself, like saying it out loud would make you appear quicker. The silence of the house only made the waiting worse. Every hour bled into the next, and with each tick he felt wound tighter, like something inside him was going to snap. When your truck finally ground up the gravel, it hit him like a shot in the chest. He didn’t walk to the door — he bolted, boots pounding the steps, nearly tripping in his rush. He flung it wide and there you were, road-worn and smiling, and all the air went out of him. He lunged forward, arms wrapping around you before he could speak. His face pressed hard into your neck, and a sound ripped out of him, not quite a sob, not quite a laugh, but too raw to hold back. His shoulders trembled, the kind of trembling that comes from years of hunger breaking loose all at once. Then he pushed you back outside, couldn’t contain it a second longer. He slammed you against the siding, your hat knocked clean off, and his mouth crashed onto yours. It wasn’t graceful. His lips were clumsy, his teeth scraped, his breath broke in uneven gasps, but the kiss poured out everything he hadn’t been able to say. His hands roamed roughly, dragging you close, grinding you flush against him, his whole body shaking with need. You met him with equal force, clutching, pulling, grounding him in the storm he’d unleashed. His groan spilled against your mouth, broken, desperate, almost on the edge of tears. He kissed harder, as if kissing was the only way he knew to keep breathing. From the doorway, Alma’s hand froze on the frame. She stared, stunned, at her husband tangled with another man, his body pressed, his hands grasping, his mouth devouring kisses that belonged to someone else. And in that stunned silence came the memory of all the times Ennis had returned to her after Brokeback Mountain. She had waited for the same kind of spark, the same fire in his eyes. But he had never looked at her that way. He had come back quieter, colder, carrying some secret she could never touch. Watching him now, Alma understood what she had never wanted to admit: he had never come back for her. He had never belonged to her at all. Ennis pulled back just long enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes wet, his jaw clenched hard against the emotion threatening to spill. His voice rasped low, unsteady. “You don’t know… you don’t know what it’s been like. Feels like I been waitin’ my whole damn life just to see you again.” His grip didn’t ease. His whole body pressed into yours, as though if he let go, you’d vanish back into the years he couldn’t stand living without you.

ghost drink

Ghost had taken you under his wing when you were eighteen, back when you were nothing more than a green soldier stumbling through orders you couldn’t understand. He had barked at you, drilled you, dragged you through the dirt until you stood on your own two feet. Ten years later you weren’t the lost recruit anymore, you were cut from muscle and scars, a fighter who carried himself like someone who had earned every step. Ghost had watched that transformation, and in the dim stench of a bar after a mission, he decided to test you again. His gloved hand clamped firm around your jaw, thumb digging hard until your mouth opened. In his other hand, a glass of whiskey tipped, amber burning as it poured down your throat. His voice was low, sharp, every word snapping like an order on the training field but dirtier, rougher. “Open wider, lad, let me drown that throat,” Ghost barked, tilting the glass slow to flood your mouth. “Swallow it, every fuckin’ drop, don’t let a single bit spill unless you’re beggin’ for me to shove it back in,” he growled, thumb dragging against the corner of your lips. “Good boy, choke it down, I want to see that throat work for it,” he said, watching you gulp as the liquor scorched. “Don’t you fuckin’ cough, hold it, hold it till I tell you,” he ordered, gripping tighter as the whiskey surged harder into you. “Messy bastard, look at that chin, soaked already, lick it clean or I’ll smear it back across your lips,” he hissed, smudging the spill across your mouth with the rough pad of his glove. “Again, open up, I’m not done feeding you,” he commanded, tilting more down, the glass heavy and fast. “Deeper, lad, deeper, don’t stop until I’ve emptied this glass into you,” Ghost pressed, holding your jaw firm as the liquor ran hot down your throat. “Good, that’s fuckin’ good, you’re takin’ it like a seasoned bastard, not the rookie I had to babysit a decade ago,” he rasped, his grip bruising. “Throat wide, drink hard, prove you can swallow more than any man here,” he demanded, forcing the last of the whiskey into you with a rough shove. “Perfect, dirty and strong, the way a soldier ought to be,” Ghost finished, lowering the empty glass, his gloved thumb still forcing your jaw open as his words stuck heavy in your ear.

Ghost kiss

Ten years ago, when you were an eighteen-year-old private fresh off the transport, barely able to string together “yes, sir” in broken English, Ghost had spotted something in you, raw potential wrapped in wide-eyed confusion. He took you under his wing, drilled discipline into you, taught you the language with curt phrases and sharper glares, turned the scrawny kid into a soldier. Now, at twenty-eight, you fill out the fatigues like they were tailored, shoulders broad, jaw sharp, eyes carrying the weight of missions and the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he wants. Ghost, fifteen years your senior, still wears the skull mask in the field, but in private moments, the lines around his eyes betray the years, the experience, the quiet authority that drew you to him in the first place. The two of you crossed a line last night, tangled in his quarters, bodies pressed close, breath hot and desperate, a release of tension built over a decade of stolen glances and unspoken need. You step into his office, the door clicking shut behind you. The room smells of gun oil and black coffee, papers strewn across the desk, a single lamp casting long shadows. Ghost sits behind it, mask off, his short-cropped hair flecked with gray, scars crisscrossing his forearms where the sleeves are rolled up. He looks up, dark eyes locking onto yours, and his jaw tightens. He leans back in the chair, fingers drumming once on the desk before he speaks, voice low, deliberate. “From now on our relationship, it’s- it’s a strictly, professional, lieutenant recruit-” You don’t let him finish. You cross the room in three strides, lean over the desk, and crash your mouth against his. The kiss is hungry, tongue sliding past his lips, tasting coffee and the faint burn of whiskey. Ghost freezes for half a second, then a soft, involuntary moan rumbles in his throat. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into the muscle through your shirt, pulling you closer as he kisses back, hard, possessive, the chair creaking under his weight. His stubble scrapes your skin, the heat of him overwhelming, the scent of sweat and leather filling your lungs. But then he jerks away, hands dropping from your waist like he’s been burned. His chest heaves, eyes wide, a flush creeping up his neck. “Greyson, no!” he says, voice deep, flustered, cracking with the effort to regain control. He stands, pushing the chair back, one hand raking through his hair as he turns away, shoulders tense. The room feels smaller, the air thick with the echo of that kiss, his breathing ragged. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles white, not looking at you, but you can see the war in him, the lieutenant trying to bury the man who just moaned into your mouth.

ghost stroke

The call had shattered Ghost’s world in an instant. He was sitting at the table with Price, Gaz, and Soap, going over intel when his phone buzzed. The tone in the nurse’s voice was clinical but heavy, telling him you had been admitted with a stroke. He froze mid-breath, the room going silent as his hand clenched the phone. “Simon?” Price’s voice was low but firm. Ghost swallowed hard, his jaw tight as he stood abruptly. “It’s him. Hospital. Stroke.” He didn’t wait for questions, already moving, and the others didn’t hesitate to follow. The four of them arrived together, their boots heavy against the sterile hospital floor, a strange sight in civilian clothes but carrying the weight of soldiers ready for battle. The doctor stepped forward and asked if they were family. Price answered first, steady and commanding. “We are. Tell us.” The doctor exhaled slowly. “He’s stable. The stroke affected his speech, and he’s lost function in his left arm. There’s a long road ahead.” Ghost’s throat worked but no words came, his fists curling until the leather of his gloves creaked. Soap shifted on his feet, running a hand through his hair, his voice breaking the silence. “Bloody hell. That’s brutal.” Gaz laid a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, gentle but firm. “He’s still here. That’s what matters.” Ghost nodded once, curt, his eyes locked on the hallway where the doctor gestured. “Take me to him.” When they entered your room the atmosphere shifted. The machines beeped steadily, your body smaller against the sheets, eyes fluttering open at the sound of them arriving. Ghost was at your side in two strides, dragging a chair close, his hand sliding carefully around your right hand. His voice dropped, rough and thick. “I’m here.” Soap hung back at first, then moved closer to the foot of the bed, his usual grin absent, his brow creased. “You gave us a right scare, mate. Don’t be doin’ that again.” Gaz leaned on the other side of the bed, his tone calm and practical. “We’ll help you through this. No matter how long it takes.” Price stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, his face carved from stone but his eyes softer than Ghost had ever seen. “You’ve still got fight in you. That’s all we need to know.” You tried to form a sound, lips parting, but nothing came. Frustration flickered in your expression, your left arm twitching uselessly against the blanket. Ghost leaned in instantly, gripping your right hand tighter, his voice fierce. “Don’t push it. Don’t you dare think this changes what you are to me.” Soap gave a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Man loses a bit of speech and one arm, but he’s still got you, Ghost. Poor sod won’t get a moment of peace now.” That pulled the faintest spark in your eyes, and Ghost caught it, his chest easing the smallest bit. He lowered his head until his forehead almost touched yours. “I’m not leaving. Not today, not ever. We’ll get through this, even if I have to carry you on my back.” The team lingered in the room, each man settling into silence broken only by the occasional machine beep. Soap cracked a joke here and there just to keep the air from getting too heavy, Gaz pulled a chair up and started quietly listing out small exercises he knew for stroke recovery, and Price watched over everything, steady and unshakable. Ghost never let go of your hand. Not once.

ghost celiac

When Ghost had first taken you under his wing, you were barely eighteen, green as grass and far from home. You hadn’t spoken a word of English, only your native tongue spilling from your lips in clipped bursts when fear and adrenaline hit. The others didn’t have patience, they muttered about the liability of a boy who couldn’t even shout a warning in their language, but Ghost had seen something in you. He’d kept you close, taught you silently with hand signals and long nights of pointing at weapons, gear, the map spread between you. He was stern but steady, a wall you could lean against when everything else tried to swallow you. A decade passed and the boy was gone. In his place stood a man with sharp lines to his jaw, strength in his shoulders, eyes that could quiet a room without needing words. Still, Ghost never stopped watching, never stopped guarding, like the shadow at your back that refused to leave. The Christmas party was chaos, voices raised with drink, laughter spilling out like smoke, the table groaning beneath platters of food. Pies, rolls, cakes, battered meats, nothing without wheat, nothing without the poison that could wreck you from the inside out. You stood there at first, scanning, then sat down quietly in the far corner. A plastic cup of water in your hand was all you had, the rim turning damp beneath your thumb. Nobody noticed. The room swelled with cheer but it skimmed right past you, and you sat in the low light, shoulders curved inward, trying to make yourself small. Your throat tightened the longer you sat, the scents of food filling the air, your stomach hollow, but worse than hunger was the isolation. Everyone else had plates piled high, drinks sloshing, faces flushed and grinning. You had nothing. The water tasted stale and thin. Your eyes prickled, not enough to fall but enough to shine, that glassy sheen that comes when you refuse to let anyone see how much it hurts. You blinked it back, staring down at the table as though the cup alone could anchor you. Ghost saw. He always saw. From across the room his gaze hooked on you, unmoving, locked as if the rest of the party had ceased to exist. He noticed the slump of your shoulders, the smallness of your hands around the cup, the glint of moisture in your eyes you tried to hide by lowering your head. His blood went cold, then hot, fury flaring like a shot to the chest. Ten years you’d fought beside them, ten years you bled with them, and still they’d let this happen? Leave you sitting alone like an afterthought? He moved before thought could catch him, cutting through the crowd with heavy steps. His presence always demanded silence and now it rolled ahead of him like a storm. He reached the laden table, grabbed a plate, and slammed it down hard enough that the crack of ceramic silenced the room. “Which one of you put this together?” Ghost’s voice was low, dark, each word sharp as a knife. “Because I want to know which of you thought it was fine to leave him sitting with a glass of fucking water while you lot gorge yourselves.” His gaze swept, daring anyone to meet it. “Not a crumb here he can touch. Not one dish that won’t put him on the floor. Ten bloody years he’s stood with you, and this is how you repay him?” Murmurs stirred, shame heavy, no one daring to speak. Ghost leaned closer to the table, gloved hand pressing flat, voice dropping to a near growl. “Next time you forget him, next time you make him sit in the corner like he’s not part of you, you answer to me. Clear?” No one answered, but their silence was answer enough. Ghost turned from them, the rage simmering still but held tight, and crossed to you. His hand found your shoulder, heavy, solid, steadying, his thumb brushing once as if to remind you he was there. “Come on, love,” Ghost murmured low, voice only for you. “You’re not sitting here with glassy eyes and an empty stomach. Not tonight. We’ll sort you out proper.” His hand didn’t leave your shoulder as he drew you up, shielding you with his body, daring anyone to look your way again.

ghost country road

When you were eighteen you had nothing but a uniform too big for your frame and a rifle that felt heavier than your own body. No English, no voice in the barracks, just the hard lines of orders barked in a language you didn’t understand. Fear was the only thing you knew, fear and the determination not to break. Ghost had been there from the start, his shadow looming behind you in every drill, every firefight, every lesson beaten into muscle memory. He didn’t waste words but he gave you the ones you needed, made you repeat them until your tongue wrapped properly around the sound. He taught you how to fight, how to live, how to be more than a scared kid thrown into a war he wasn’t ready for. Years carved you into something different. Ten of them passed before you realized the boy you were had been burned away completely. At thirty-one you had broad shoulders that carried not just your own weight but the weight of everyone under you. Scars mapped across your skin told stories of battles that would have buried weaker men. You weren’t Ghost’s recruit anymore, not the green soldier fumbling for words, but a man whose presence steadied others. You were someone the young ones looked at the way you used to look at him. The common room was quiet except for the low hum of the lamps and the nervous chatter that faded when you started playing. Your guitar sat easy in your hands, strings vibrating under calloused fingers as you picked out the familiar rhythm. “Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong…” Your voice was low, thick with the accent that had never left you, carrying every word with a steadiness that reached further than the sound itself. The recruits, most of them too fresh to hide the fear in their eyes, softened as the song went on. Some stared hard at the floor, pretending not to listen. Others gave up the fight and leaned closer. One sat curled tight against your side, head tipped against your arm, breathing steadying in the rise and fall of your chest. Another rested their chin on your knee like a child clinging to a parent. A couple of them leaned together across from you, shoulders brushing, quiet tears wiped away quick when they thought no one saw. You let them. You gave them the closeness they craved without a word, holding space for them in a way no drill sergeant ever would. In that moment you weren’t just their instructor, you were the anchor keeping them from drifting too far out. A father they could claim without speaking it aloud. The door creaked, a quiet sound but one that pulled at the edges of the room. Ghost stepped inside, broad shoulders filling the frame, mask shadow cutting deep under the soft light. His eyes scanned once, sharp and assessing like always, but stopped when they found you. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossing over his chest, the picture of patience and control, but his stare was anything but casual. He took in every detail, the guitar balanced against your thigh, the way your fingers slid across the strings, the recruits pressed into you like you were the only solid ground they had left. The mask hid his face but his eyes betrayed him. They lingered too long, heavy with something he wouldn’t name. He noticed the way they clung to you, the way you allowed it, the way your voice smoothed the cracks in their armor. He noticed how much you had changed from the kid he first dragged out of the mud, and how much of him had stayed close enough to see that change happen. The last note rang out, fading slow into the stillness. The recruits stayed quiet, heads still resting against you, bodies relaxed for the first time in days. And Ghost, still in the doorway, hadn’t shifted an inch. His gaze was locked on you, unmoving, as if you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

beast

The storm raged behind you, thunder rolling like the footsteps of the men still hunting somewhere in the trees. You were nineteen, half frozen and bleeding from scrapes, when the black silhouette of the castle rose against the sky. Towers pierced the clouds, gargoyles snarled from crumbling ledges, and iron gates sagged with age. It should have frightened you enough to turn back, but the shouts in the forest made the choice for you. The gates creaked open beneath your trembling hands. The courtyard was lined with statues, their faces twisted in silent warning. The grand doors swung wide without effort, and warmth from flickering torches spilled across the marble floor. For the first time that night, you caught your breath. Then came the sound. Heavy claws scraping against stone. A low, guttural growl echoing from the shadows. You turned as he stepped forward, massive and horned, his mane catching the firelight. His eyes locked onto you like a predator’s, though something in them—something deep—hesitated. “What is a boy doing in my castle?” His voice was a thunderclap, shaking the air. You stumbled over words, but he cut across them. “You run from something.” He prowled closer, each step measured, deliberate. His presence was overwhelming, his size alone enough to swallow you whole. And yet… he stopped just short of striking fear into finality. His breath brushed your skin as he leaned down, sharp teeth glinting. “Why here?” That first night, you expected chains. Instead, he let you stay. He left you a room with a fire, blankets too large but soft as fur. When morning came, he was gone, though the scent of him lingered faintly in the halls. Days blurred into weeks. At first you barely saw him, only felt his shadow following you through the corridors. Whenever you dared to wander, he was never far—silent until he wished not to be. Slowly, he spoke more. His questions came blunt at first—“Where are you from?” “Why do they chase you?”—but soon they softened. He listened more than he admitted, his rumbling voice no longer so sharp when directed at you. He began appearing at your side without warning. When you walked the gardens, he was just behind you. When you sat by the fire, he lowered himself into the opposite chair, claws tapping against the armrest as though restless. The space between you shrank. His presence was overwhelming at first, but soon became a strange sort of shield. There were moments when you caught him watching. His golden eyes lingered on you, not in anger, but with something unspoken. His nearness grew deliberate—standing close enough that your shoulder brushed against his arm when you walked, leaning low enough that you felt his breath stir your hair when he spoke. And then one day, you were in the library. The room stretched endlessly, shelves curling upward into shadow, dust caught in sunbeams like falling stars. You had claimed the corner of a velvet couch, nose buried in a book, lips moving soundlessly as you read. The fire popped gently in the grate, and your world shrank to ink on parchment. He watched from the archway for a long while before entering. His claws barely whispered against the floor, his mane shadowing his face, but his eyes were fixed on you. He crossed the distance and settled into the space beside you, the couch creaking beneath his weight. He said nothing at first, only leaned close enough to glance at the book in your hands, his shoulder nearly touching yours. “You read as though the world outside doesn’t exist,” he rumbled quietly. There was no anger in his tone, only something that lingered between fascination and tenderness. He stayed beside you, closer than he had ever dared before, the scent of earth and rain clinging to him, the warmth of his body radiating like a second fire in the vast library.

ghost storm

When Ghost first laid eyes on you all those years ago, you were nothing more than a green soldier, barely eighteen, eyes too wide and hands too shaky. You didn’t speak a word of English, and every order shouted your way left you looking lost in the whirlwind of training. The others had written you off, called you dead weight, but Ghost hadn’t. He had been the one to grab you by the shoulders and shove you back on your feet when you fell, the one to stand over you with that cold stare until you steadied your rifle, the one who taught you in silence when words failed. To everyone else you had looked fragile, but he saw grit buried under all that awkwardness. Ten years carved you into something different. The boy who tripped through drills was long gone. You’d grown into your build, into your face, into your presence. Stronger, sharper, but still bright in ways Ghost could never be. He was the storm, and you were the break in the clouds. He was the moon, hard and cold, and you were the sun, warm and unrelenting. He carried silence, you carried laughter. He was a soldier honed into steel, you were the stubborn spark that refused to burn out. Somehow, against reason, it worked. The common room was thick with chatter, rookies spread across couches and tables, laughing too loud at their own stories. The noise stuttered the second Ghost walked in. He didn’t need to say a word, didn’t even look their way. Mask down, broad frame cutting through the room like a blade, every step of his boots rang against the floor until the room thinned into uneasy quiet. His gaze locked only on you. He stopped behind you, a wall of black and muscle, and leaned down until his voice rumbled low, meant for no one but you. “You eating enough, sunshine? You don’t look it.” His tone was softer than the rookies had ever heard from him, a careful edge that was more protective than sharp. He let it hang there, hand sliding to your waist, gloved palm settling firm against you. His mask brushed against your hair as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “Don’t stay up late tonight,” Ghost murmured, almost a warning, almost a request. “I’ll be back before lights out.” The rookies closest to the door had their jaws slack at the sound of him speaking low, not barking, not growling. He didn’t move away yet. His hand lingered, thumb brushing once against your side before he turned your face up to him. Then, with a certainty that cracked the silence in the room, he kissed you full on the mouth, deep and unapologetic. A French kiss, deliberate, slow, the kind of thing no one would ever expect from him. His mask was tugged just enough for it, his breath warm, his grip steady. For a man built of shadows, he kissed like someone unwilling to let go. When he pulled back, he pressed one last soft kiss to your temple, slid his mask fully back into place, and straightened to his full height. The rookies stared like they’d just seen the unseeable. Ghost’s eyes cut toward them, a flicker of warning that froze them solid. Then he strode for the door, every inch of him back to the cold, untouchable soldier, voice already rising as he barked at the recruits outside. Through the walls, his anger thundered, ripping into the rookies lined in formation. But in the common room, the ones who had seen what happened sat stunned, their chatter dead, still replaying the sight of Ghost, the feared, the merciless, stopping long enough to hold someone close, to kiss them like it meant everything.

ghost wank

Ghost had taken you in when you were eighteen, all bone, nerves, and sharp Gaelic you spat at anyone who tried to talk to you. You’d had no English, no discipline, no patience. He’d broken you in with drills that made your legs shake, range hours that blistered your hands, and missions where one wrong move would have gotten you killed. A decade later, you’d filled out into a soldier who could hold your ground against anyone. Broad shoulders under a fitted tac shirt, forearms corded with muscle, a jawline rough with stubble, and eyes so cold they cut through a man before he had a chance to speak. The Colonel didn’t seem to care. He stood over you in the middle of the common room, spitting reprimands like bullets, his voice sharp with authority. You sat there, expression carved from stone, letting him rant; until your hand slid between your legs. Your fingers curled in a slow, mocking wank, dragging each stroke out like you had all the time in the world. Then, with a sharp snap of your wrist, you flicked your fingers outward, crude and unmistakable. Soap groaned from across the table, dragging his hand over his face. “Christ almighty… Ghost, your lad’s just told the Colonel to fuck himself without even opening his mouth.” Heavy boots echoed on the floor. Ghost stepped into the doorway, the air seeming to tighten with him there. His gaze locked on you instantly, never touching Soap or the Colonel. He tilted his head, one brow lifting with slow precision. “Go on,” he said, his voice low and steady, “if you’re gonna act like a little wanker, whip it out then, lad.” The Colonel froze mid-step, Soap’s eyes flicked between you both, but the moment Ghost’s voice hit you, your spine straightened. Shoulders squared. Eyes locked on his. You didn’t so much as glance at anyone else. Ghost started walking toward you, his pace deliberate, the sound of his boots filling the room. “That’s funny,” he said, tone turning sharp, “you’ve got plenty of fight for him,” he jerked his chin at the Colonel without looking away from you, “but the second I open my mouth, you sit up straight.” He stopped in front of you, his shadow cutting across your chest. “You think you’re a big man now? Big enough to throw a wank gesture at a superior officer? Let me tell you something, if you’re gonna act like you’ve got the biggest cock in the room, you’d better be ready for someone to call you on it.” The Colonel shifted in his stance, clearly itching to speak, but Ghost didn’t give him the chance. “You’ve got two choices, lad. Keep running your mouth until I shut it for you, or remember your place before I decide to make a lesson out of you in front of both of them.” He leaned forward slightly, close enough that only you caught the quiet rasp in his voice. “Thing is… I think you like it when I’m the one giving orders. You act tough, but you’re sat there listening like a good boy the second I step in.” Soap let out a low whistle under his breath, but no one dared break the silence. The only sound was Ghost’s voice, heavy and deliberate, as he straightened up but kept his eyes locked on yours. “So… are you gonna keep pretending you’re in charge? Or are you gonna do what you always do when I walk in? Shut up and behave?”

ghost 353

The winter air in 1672 was sharp enough to cut through skin, the stars hidden behind a heavy veil of clouds. The forest was your only shield, bare trees stretching tall like watchmen as you and Simon stumbled through the underbrush. His hand was locked with yours, firm and desperate, each step driven by the sound of dogs barking in the distance, the angry cries of men who had discovered your secret. Simon’s hair clung damp against his brow, his breath steaming in the cold. “They’ll not let us go,” he whispered, voice trembling but steady with resolve, “not after what they’ve seen.” He stopped just long enough to turn you toward him, his dark eyes burning even under fear. His hand cupped your face as if you were the only thing worth holding in the world. “But I swear to you, if they take us tonight, I’ll find you again. In every life, in every place, I will always come back to you.” The shouts grew closer, flames flickering through the trees. You felt the bite of rope as rough hands seized you both. The mob dragged you into the square, curses and hatred filling the air. The nooses were already waiting. Simon’s gaze never wavered, locked onto you as the stools creaked beneath your feet. His voice carried one last vow, soft and unbroken. “We will not end here.” And then the world snapped to black. 353 years later the air reeked of oil and grit, the steady thrum of engines rolling through the forward operating base. The truck jolted to a stop, and you climbed down, boots sinking into dirt. The noise of soldiers, the clatter of weapons, and the sharp bark of orders all pressed in at once. Yet beneath it all, a pull gnawed in your chest, like a string tied to something unseen. Across the yard, a figure stood apart. A towering man in fatigues, face concealed by a mask painted with a stark white skull. He was a shadow given form, broad-shouldered and silent, the kind of presence that pulled attention without demanding it. Ghost turned his head as though sensing you before anyone spoke your name. His eyes, hidden in shadow, lingered on you longer than a glance should. “Sergeant,” the captain’s voice cut through the noise, “welcome to Task Force 141. That’s Lieutenant Riley, callsign Ghost. You’ll be under his command.” Ghost’s gaze held yours, unwavering. Something twisted in the space between you, something too old to be explained by orders or chance. His voice was low when he finally spoke, gravel scraping against something softer underneath. “Feels like I’ve seen you before.” The words caught in your chest, heavy with meaning you couldn’t place. The base seemed to fade around you, leaving only him, the weight of centuries pressing down in silence neither of you understood. Ghost adjusted his gloves, tilting his head slightly, still watching you. “Strange, isn’t it,” he said quietly, as if meant for you alone, “when a stranger feels familiar.” That pull only tightened, recognition that carried no memory, only the echo of a promise made beneath gallows long ago.

soap

After Logan was born your wife left, the strain of a family she never wanted driving her out the door. You were left standing in the kitchen with a newborn in your arms, swearing to yourself you’d give him everything he needed even if you had to do it alone. It hardened you in some ways, but it also softened you in others. The regiment gave you structure, and over time, Soap gave you company. What began as small favors turned into a steady friendship, his energy something you started to rely on more than you ever expected. One evening Soap offered to take Logan out, said he’d give you a break and treat the boy to a night of popcorn and flashing screens. You ended up alone in your quarters with the quiet settling deeper than usual. Bottles sat open on the table, Soap already two ahead of you, his laughter warm and unrestrained, the kind that made it hard not to join in. “You know,” he said, tipping his glass your way with a crooked grin, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you just sit still and enjoy yourself.” You shook your head, chuckling. “Hard to with a three-year-old hanging off me all the time.” Soap leaned in, eyes bright, that familiar spark of mischief tempered by something softer. “Aye, but you do it. Never seen anyone balance soldier and da’ like you. Takes a hell of a man.” His hand brushed your arm, casual at first, but he didn’t pull it back. The air shifted. His grin faded into something quieter, his gaze settling on your mouth longer than it should have. The closeness, the heat of the drink, the way his touch lingered—it all built until you finally closed the distance. The kiss was messy, unsteady, his laugh caught in the middle of it before it melted into something hungrier. Soap pulled you in like he’d been waiting years, his grip strong, testing, wanting more. You let him. The night blurred into tangled limbs and breathless words, into you against him, into heat and trust spilling past the lines you’d both been holding. When morning came, the smell of frying eggs filled the kitchen. Logan sat on the counter, humming and swinging his legs, waiting for his breakfast. You had the pan in one hand, spatula in the other, when the door opened and Soap strolled in. His hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled, but that grin—sleepy, lopsided—was still there. “Smells bloody brilliant in here,” he said, voice rough with the night before. His eyes flicked to Logan, then back to you, taking in the sight like it was something rare. “Didn’t think I’d be wakin’ up to this after last night.” Logan giggled at something only he understood, banging his little fork against the counter. Soap moved closer to you, shoulder bumping yours as he lowered his voice. “You’re one hell of a soldier,” he murmured, “but I’ve a feeling you’re an even better da’. And last night…” his grin faltered into something more serious as his eyes locked with yours, “Christ, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like that before.”

Ghost

In the quiet nursery of a small English town, two infant boys lay side by side in a shared crib, Simon Riley with his tiny fists clenched and you, the premature baby next to him, curled up small and fragile against his warmth. Their parents watched over them, smiling softly as the babies instinctively cuddled together, and Simon’s mother whispered to your father, “Wherever one goes, the other won’t be far to follow.” The words hung in the air like a promise, binding the two families closer, while nurses monitored your delicate health, your early arrival leaving you with breathing troubles that required extra care, but Simon seemed to sense it, his little body shifting protectively even in sleep. As toddlers in the sunlit backyard, Simon, already sturdy and bold, toddled after butterflies, his laughter echoing, while you, still tiny and often wheezing from asthma flares, sat on a blanket clutching a toy truck. He always came back to you, plopping down with a handful of dandelions, sharing them wordlessly, his presence a constant shield during your frequent doctor visits, where he’d hold your hand through nebulizer treatments, the two of you inseparable as playmates, building forts from cushions and dreaming of adventures. In the tween years, amid schoolyard games and scraped knees, Simon grew taller and tougher, earning the nickname Ghost for his quiet intensity, while you remained slight, your growth stunted by ongoing health issues like weak lungs and allergies that kept you indoors more often. He’d sneak you comics during recess, sitting by your side when you missed classes, the pair of you trading secrets under the old oak tree, his loyalty fierce as he stood up to bullies who teased your size, “Back off, he’s my mate,” he’d growl, pulling you into another scheme, like exploring the woods or fixing bikes, your bond deepening through shared laughter and quiet support. Through the turbulent teens, Simon bulked up with rugby and weights, his voice deepening as he navigated family troubles, while you, ever the smaller one, battled chronic fatigue and hospital stays for pneumonia, your frame never catching up despite the doctors’ efforts. He’d visit you in the ward, smuggling in video games and stories of school drama, the two of you huddled over a screen playing Call of Duty late into the night, “We’ll join up together one day,” he’d say, his hand on your shoulder, mates through awkward crushes and late-night talks, your friendship a anchor amid the chaos of growing up, hints of something unspoken in the way he’d linger, protective and close. Now as adults in the dim barracks of a remote military base, Ghost, masked and imposing in his tactical gear, shares cramped quarters with you, his childhood friend turned fellow soldier, the air thick with the scent of gun oil and coffee. He wakes early, brewing a pot before PT, glancing over as you stir from sleep, your smaller build still marked by the premie start, health patches on your vest for quick access to meds. “Morning, mate,” he rumbles, handing you a mug, his eyes softening behind the skull mask

Ghost cuddle

Ten years ago Simon Riley had spotted the scrawny eighteen-year-old recruit who couldn’t string together a full sentence in English, wide-eyed, terrified, clutching his rifle like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Ghost had taken one look at the kid’s trembling hands and decided nobody else was going to break him. He taught him the language one harsh word at a time, stood over him in the rain until he could strip and reassemble a weapon blindfolded, dragged him out of firefights when the boy froze. The baby fat melted off, shoulders filled out, jaw sharpened, voice dropped low and steady, and now, at twenty-eight, you carried yourself like someone who belonged in the regiment. The nightmares started six months ago, vicious things that left you gasping and soaked in sweat. The first time you showed up at his door, barefoot, shaking, too proud to ask, he simply stepped aside and let you in. After the third night he stopped pretending you were going back to your own bunk. The spare pillow stayed on his bed, your spare kit appeared in his locker, and nobody on the task force said a word about it. The common room is quiet this morning, early sun cutting through the blinds in dusty bars. Simon has just come out of the shower, skin still damp, droplets clinging to the short blond hair at the nape of his neck. He’s wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, the fabric clinging to the heavy curve of his thighs and the soft, relaxed weight of his cock resting against his left leg, the outline unmistakable even when he isn’t hard. The cotton stretches over the firm swell of his ass as he reaches up to grab a mug from the top shelf, back muscles shifting under scarred skin, water still tracing the line of his spine. The door creaks. He turns his head and sees you. You shuffle in wearing his old black hoodie, the one with the frayed cuffs his name, **RILEY** fading out on the back. It’s comically oversized on you even now, hem brushing mid-thigh, sleeves swallowing your hands. Your curls are a riot, sticking up in every direction, one side flattened from the pillow, and your eyes are still puffy with sleep, lashes clumped together. Bare feet, slow steps, the faintest red crease on your cheek from the pillowcase. You look eighteen again for a second, soft and unguarded, except you’re not. You’re all grown, beautiful in the way sharp things sometimes are when they finally learn how to be gentle. Something warm and fierce punches Simon straight in the sternum. He has to set the mug down before he drops it. His chest actually aches with how much he wants to scoop you up, press you against the nearest wall, bury his face in your hair and breathe you in until the feeling stops threatening to crack his ribs open. He doesn’t. He never does. Instead he leans his hip against the counter, arms folding across his bare chest, and lets the fondness bleed into his voice. “Morning, sunshine,” he says, low and rough from the shower steam. “You steal my hoodie again or did it just walk out here on its own?” His gaze drags over you shamelessly, slow, taking in the way the fabric drapes over your collarbones, the little flash of skin where it rides up when you lift a hand to rub your eye. He wants to bite the inside of your thigh where the hoodie ends. He wants to pull the drawstring until you’re close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck. He wants so much it makes his hands itch. “You look like you fought the pillow and lost,” he murmurs, stepping closer, bare feet silent on the tile. He stops just shy of touching, close enough that the heat rolling off his skin brushes against you. “Come here, let me fix your hair before Soap sees and takes pictures.” His fingers hover near your temple, waiting, always waiting, because he will never take what you don’t offer first. But his eyes are soft, darker than usual, and the corner of his mouth curves in that almost-smile he saves just for you. “Missed you in the bed when I got up,” he says quietly. “Was cold without my personal furnace hogging all the blankets.”

greg

The night air in Rome was thick with the remnants of summer heat, the stones beneath Gregory’s polished shoes still holding warmth from the sun. He walked with a measured gait, cigarette balanced neatly between his fingers, smoke trailing upward to curl in lazy ribbons. His jacket sat tailored and crisp despite the hour, his hat tilted just enough to cast shadow over his eyes, though the lamps along the street glinted against his dark hair. At his side you staggered, your steps uneven, your breath rich with wine. Gregory glanced sidelong, lips twitching at the corners though his composure hardly broke. When your body tipped and your head came to rest against his back, he stopped outright, a man more perplexed than displeased. His shoulders shifted with the weight, and he turned his chin just enough to cast a glance over. That famous eyebrow lifted, sharp as the cut of his jaw. He spoke low, his voice velvet, touched with that careful formality the age demanded. “Well, would you look at that. You’ve chosen the broad of my back for your pillow.” He took a long draw from his cigarette, the ember glowing against the dark before he let the smoke slip slow from his lips. “I daresay you’re heavier than you look when you’ve no sense of your feet. Careful, lad, you’ll drag us both to the stones if you keep on.” Your knees wavered as he leaned back to test your balance, and Greg was quick, steadying you with a hand strong at your elbow. His touch lingered just a second longer than was proper, his gaze narrowing as though studying whether you might topple. “There now,” he said softly, almost chiding though tempered with fondness. “Rome may forgive many things, but a fellow flat on his face is a poor spectacle for the night crowd.” A burst of laughter rang out from a group just up the street, their voices slurred with drink, their steps clumsy. Gregory straightened at once, shoulders broad, body angled so you were half-hidden in his shadow. To any wandering eye, it was merely a gentleman guiding along his inebriated companion, nothing amiss, nothing worth noting. Greg lifted his brow again, shaking his head with quiet humor. “My word, you’ve near emptied the cellars this evening, haven’t you. Come now, the hour’s too late and your strength too spent. Best I see you safely laid in bed before you take to sleeping in the gutter.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette with a practiced hand, eyes forward though the curve at his mouth betrayed his amusement. The streets stretched on, narrow alleys giving way to open piazzas where fountains murmured and lamps flickered. Each step you faltered, Gregory bore more of your weight, his hand slipping now to your shoulder, now to the small of your back, always steady, always discreet. His tone stayed polished, the cadence of a man careful to keep appearances even as his words carried something softer beneath. “Steady yourself, boy,” he murmured, voice low, meant for your ears alone. “There’s no shame in a man enjoying his cups, but you’ll not make me carry you the whole of Rome, tempting though it may be.” His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, though he hushed it quickly, as if even laughter must be rationed beneath the eyes of the world. With each lamplit corner turned, Gregory’s presence remained constant, his suit pressed, his manner gentlemanly, yet every glance, every steadying touch carried an intimacy carefully hidden under the guise of friendship. To anyone watching, it was merely two men walking home after a long night. But between the two of you, in the hush of Roman streets, it was a closeness unspoken, a bond draped in propriety yet beating louder than the cobblestones underfoot.

ghost angsty

When Ghost first met you, you were eighteen, a kid dropped into a war you couldn’t even name in English. You couldn’t follow orders, couldn’t keep up, eyes too wide, body too thin under the weight of your gear. Everyone thought you’d break, but Ghost took you under, rough and relentless, teaching you with gestures, drills, and a patience sharper than kindness. You grew under his hand, broad shoulders, a jaw set firm, scars across skin that proved you’d survived what should’ve crushed you. Ten years passed, and the boy who once hid behind him now stood as his equal. Somewhere along the way, something else had bloomed, buried deep until recently when you both stopped running from it. Now you were his. His soldier. His boy. But Ghost was jagged edges, and you burned hot. Together you worked, until nights like this. Tonight it was nothing, a petty thing that should’ve died in silence, but it didn’t. You pressed, and he was already fraying. The common room filled with it, fluorescent lights buzzing, Ghost’s voice snapping louder than usual, mask hiding nothing of the anger lacing his tone. “You never stop, do you? Always dragging everything into a bloody fight, always turning it into a storm.” You fired back, heat meeting his cold, and Ghost’s patience shattered. He stepped in closer, his voice dropping into something crueler, darker. “You know what you sound like? You sound just like him. Your father. Loud, selfish, cruel when you don’t get your way. You tear into people just to feel in control. That’s who you are. His son, through and through.” The venom in it was deliberate, sharper than steel. And when the silence hit, when he saw the way your face froze, he realized exactly what he’d done. The anger drained in an instant, replaced with a sick, heavy weight in his chest. His jaw clenched hard under the mask, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides. For a moment, he looked away, unable to stand in the ruin of his own words. Then his eyes found you again, and though the mask hid his expression, the guilt bled from him in his silence, in the way his shoulders dropped, in the way his breath came unsteady through the filter. He wanted to speak, to undo it, but the words stuck. What he finally gave you was raw, quiet, stripped bare. “I shouldn’t have said that.” Nothing more, nothing less. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t try to patch it over with more words. He stood there instead, still as stone, suffocating in the shame of it, because he hadn’t just lashed out at anyone. He’d said it to you. To his boy. And that knowledge hollowed him in a way no battlefield ever could.

Ghost omega

The common room glows under a single hanging bulb, the air rich with butter and thyme. Ghost stands at the stove in a faded black apron, sleeves rolled to the elbow, flipping thick slices of French toast in a cast-iron skillet. A second pan hisses with sausages, fat popping. He spears a ripe blackberry from a bowl, lifts it to your lips without looking away from the toast. You open, take it, and he brushes the pad of his thumb across your lower lip to catch the juice, then licks it clean himself. Gaz leans against the doorframe, arms folded, watching with lazy amusement. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type, LT. Thought your idea of breakfast was a protein bar and a glare.” Ghost grunts, flips a slice, then selects a wedge of pear. “Keeps him content. Content omega, smooth morning.” He feeds you the pear, watching your jaw work, eyes crinkling behind the mask. “See? No drama, no noise. Just takes what I give him.” You sit on the wide butcher-block island, legs swinging, hoodie sleeves pushed to your wrists, the hem riding high on your thighs. He’s already got a raspberry ready, rolling it between gloved fingers before placing it on your tongue. “Open wider,” he murmurs, and you do, letting him set it gently. He wipes a smear of purple from your chin with the corner of the apron. “Perfect manners.” The door bangs open like a gunshot. Soap stomps in barefoot, track pants slung low, hair wild, clutching a crumpled mission brief. “This is absolute shite!” he snarls, hurling the paper onto the table. It skids into a stack of plates. “They want us on standby for a bloody parade detail. Parade! We’re not bloody drum majors!” Price follows, unhurried, rolling a fresh cigar between his fingers. “It’s one afternoon, Sergeant. Smile, wave, look pretty. You’ll live.” Soap kicks the leg of a stool. It spins, clatters. “I signed up to blow doors, not march in formation like a toy soldier!” Ghost doesn’t flinch. He slides the French toast onto a warm plate, then lifts a slice of kiwi, feeding it to you slow, eyes on the sausages. “Hear that, Gaz?” he says, voice thick with satisfaction. “My boy’s perched here like royalty, eating fruit, quiet as sunrise. No stomping, no briefing tantrums. Raised him right.” Gaz smirks, pushing off the doorframe. “Proper little gentleman. Soap’s two seconds from setting the brief on fire.” Soap whirls, eyes blazing. “Piss off, Ghost. Not everyone wants to be spoon-fed like a pampered housecat.” Ghost spears a blueberry, holds it to your lips until you take it, then wipes your mouth with the back of his wrist. “Envy’s unbecoming, Johnny. My omega knows how to sit still and be adored.” He leans in, voice a low rasp just for you. “Don’t you, sweetheart? Good boys get syrup on their toast and kisses on their neck.”

Ghost

Drop it to the floor…fem!

ghost interlinked

You were eighteen when you first came to base, a boy with a hard stare and a silence that spoke louder than words. You didn’t speak English, not then, and the other soldiers noticed. They laughed, jabbed, tried to break you down. Ghost didn’t. He saw the fight you carried even in your silence, the way you refused to bow your head. Something in that fire hooked him. So he took you under his wing. At first it was necessity—someone had to—but soon it became more. He slowed his words, taught you the language, drilled you until the movements became second nature. His gloved hand would correct your stance, his voice patient, steady, even when everyone else mocked. Nights bled into mornings with him at your side, sharing cigarettes by the trucks, your hands brushing when he passed the lighter, both of you pretending it didn’t mean anything. Until one night it did. The mask tugged just high enough, his mouth on yours, rough, certain, like he’d been waiting for it all along. From there it was fire. Stolen moments in shadows, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the sound of his voice softened to something that belonged to you alone. You grew under his watch, no longer the boy who had arrived raw and unsure, but a man sharpened by scars, a soldier whose ice blue eyes carried the weight of everything he had endured. But Ghost was a man who knew how to end things. He told you it couldn’t last, that it wasn’t right, that it would only destroy you both. His voice was flat, his words like steel, but his hands shook when you grabbed at him. You demanded to know why, your anger crumbling into heartbreak until the tears came. He turned away before you could see his own. And then, just like that, he was gone. No goodbye, no trace. A decade passed. The years carved you into something undeniable. Your shoulders broad, your jaw sharp, scars tracing stories into your skin. But it was your eyes—those same ice blue eyes—that had only grown more piercing, a weapon of their own. And then, the door opened. Ghost walked in, and Heather was clinging to his arm, her body pressed against his side, her hand sliding across his chest like she owned him. Her perfume was thick, her laugh bright, her presence suffocating. He told himself this was proof he’d moved on, that he was fine, that the years between you didn’t matter. But then he saw you. You looked up, just for a moment, and those blue eyes met his. Ten years collapsed into a single breath. His chest seized, his heart lurched, the ground fell out from under him. You were older, sharper, scarred and stronger, but still you. Still the man he had left behind. Still the man who ruined him with just one look. And then you looked away. You turned back to your conversation as if he was no one, as if he hadn’t once been everything. Ghost’s breath caught behind the mask. His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling tight, Heather’s weight on his arm suddenly unbearable. His eyes stayed fixed on you, unable to break away. God, it gutted him. He had told himself he was fine. That he had moved on. But one glance from you—those ice blue eyes—and he was shattered, broken all over again.

ghodt recruit

The hiss of the bus brakes echoed across the yard and Ghost straightened from his lean against the Humvee, arms folded as he watched the doors open. One by one, the recruits filed out, shuffling into the sharp morning air with the usual mix of nerves and bravado. He’d seen it countless times, a blur of faces and stances, all of them trying to wear the same mask of toughness. Then you stepped down. You carried yourself differently, the duffel slung awkwardly, shoulders stiff, eyes scanning like every detail was something you had to memorize to survive. There was no swagger, only quiet determination wrapped around uncertainty. Ghost caught it in a second. That was all it took. Something in him stilled, the way it does when instinct locks in. He knew. This one was his responsibility. His rookie. He glanced sideways, catching Price’s eye across the yard. No words passed between them, just a steady look. Price read it immediately, gave a small tilt of his chin in acknowledgment, then turned back to the others. Ghost moved forward, boots grinding gravel underfoot as he cut through the rows of recruits. The chatter dimmed when they noticed him approach, shoulders tensing, but he didn’t spare them a glance. His focus was on you alone. He stopped just in front of you, close enough that the air shifted with his presence. For a moment he stood still, assessing you, the set of your jaw, the flicker of hesitation in your eyes. Then he lifted a hand, resting it against the back of your neck. Not harsh, not possessive, but firm, guiding. It was the kind of gesture that anchored more than it controlled, a silent reassurance as much as a direction. Without a word he turned and started walking, steering you with him, away from the others. His stride was steady, deliberate, and he never once looked back. Past the barracks, past the sharp bark of orders and the shuffle of boots, he led you toward the quieter stretch of the base where the noise thinned and the weight of the moment settled. He didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to explain. The certainty was already carved into him. From the moment your boots hit the gravel, Ghost knew. You were the one he’d train, the one he’d keep alive, the rookie he was meant to shape with his own hands.

ghost motor

You didn’t need Ghost to translate anymore. But the truth was, he was still there, always close, like a shadow that never left your side. The rookies noticed. Of course they did. Soldiers lived on gossip as much as rations. “I didn’t know the Sergeant was gay,” one whispered during debrief, eyes flicking to where Ghost lingered at the edge of the room. “Yeah, but—” the other leaned in, smirking, “I thought he’d be into some twink, not… Ghost. Fuckin’ hell.” A quiet laugh slipped between them, nervous and mean. But when Ghost’s boots echoed against the concrete, that laughter died quick. His masked gaze swept the room, cold and sharp, and silence hit like a hammer. None of them dared to breathe too loud after that. The rumors didn’t stop, though. They just went underground, spoken in corners where they thought neither you nor Ghost could hear. Later that night, the hangar doors groaned open to the damp evening fog. Engines hissed in the distance, lights streaking weakly through the mist. Ghost was waiting there, broad frame draped in dark gear, helmet hiding every trace of expression. His motorcycle idled at his side, the low growl of it vibrating through the air. He didn’t move when you stepped out into the open. He just stood there, shoulders squared, gaze fixed. “Monty,” his voice cut through the mist, low and steady, “ready to head home?” You parted your lips to answer, but Ghost didn’t wait. He closed the distance in three long strides, his gloved hands gripping you tight before you could so much as breathe. With a grunt of strength, he hauled you up off your feet, gear and all, locking you against his chest like you weighed nothing. “Ghostie!” you barked out, the nickname escaping unguarded as laughter ripped from you. Your arms clutched around his shoulders as your boots dangled, the sudden hold stealing your breath. “Hmph— fuckin’ hell,” Ghost muttered, his voice muffled by the helmet, arms locked iron-strong around your back, “couldn’t take your kit off first?” Your laughter came sharper, chest pressed tight to his. To the rookies watching from across the lot, it was unthinkable. Sergeant Monty — the hard bastard who tore strips off them in drills, who stood unflinching under fire — clutched in Ghost’s arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Is the Sergeant—” one rookie whispered, eyes wide. “None of our business!” another cut in quick, face red, dragging him back. But their eyes didn’t leave you, watching the way Ghost held you so close, like no one else in the world existed. “Beeg,” one muttered under his breath, voice hushed and reverent, like even he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Ghost finally lowered you back down, though his grip didn’t fully let go. One hand stayed firm at your waist, possessive in its weight. He leaned down, visor nearly brushing your cheek, his voice dropping low enough that only you could hear. “Put your helmet on.”

joo jaekyung

The door to the locker room opened with a heavy thud and Joo Jaekyung stepped inside, fresh from the match, his skin slick with sweat and the faint sting of adrenaline still clinging to him. His shoulders rolled as he walked in, tall and imposing, his gaze cutting sharply across the near-empty room. “Hyung!” Hwan Yoon-gu’s voice rang out the second he saw him. He leapt up from the bench like he’d been waiting for this exact moment, grinning so hard his cheeks flushed. “Hi Jaekyung hyung, hello!” His hands fluttered for something to do, but he ended up just clasping them together, eyes shining like a kid meeting his hero. “You were amazing out there, I swear, that finish? Nobody else could pull that off. You don’t even look tired. You’re… you’re incredible, really. A beast.” Jaekyung stopped in the middle of the room, his expression flat, his tone clipped. “Where is everyone. You the only one left here?” Yoon-gu’s smile widened nervously, nodding so fast his hair nearly bounced. “Yeah, just me! Guess I’m the lucky one tonight, huh? Not every rookie gets this chance. I mean, I could grab water for you, food, whatever you want. Hell, I can give you a massage if you’re sore. Seriously, anything. I’d be glad to help.” Jaekyung didn’t answer. His eyes slid past him, scanning toward the hallway. The silence made Yoon-gu falter, his grin straining as he realized he wasn’t being heard at all. Then you stepped out from the back, adjusting the strap of a worn bag over your shoulder, sleeves rolled to your elbows, hair slightly mussed from the long night. The moment Jaekyung’s eyes landed on you, his entire demeanor shifted. The cold, disinterested edge melted away, his mouth curving into the faintest smile that never appeared for anyone else. His posture relaxed, his steps carrying him right past Yoon-gu like he didn’t exist. “Kim Dan,” Jaekyung’s voice dropped, low and rough but touched with a warmth that was impossible to miss. “You’re still here.” The sound of it made Yoon-gu’s chest tighten. He had just spent five minutes throwing every compliment he could think of, desperate to get a glance, a word, anything. But with one look at you, Jaekyung was suddenly someone else. His eyes stayed locked on you, his body angling closer, as if the room had emptied of everyone else. “You didn’t have to wait,” Jaekyung added, voice softer now, a rare tone that Yoon-gu had never once heard him use with anyone. Yoon-gu stood frozen, his fists clenching at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Jaekyung, the fighter who brushed off teammates, rookies, even coaches without a second thought, was speaking to you like you were the only person who mattered. Jealousy burned hot in his throat as he watched, the realization hitting hard. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he worshiped, he would never get Jaekyung’s attention the way you did.

Ghost

Ten years ago, Simon “Ghost” Riley had taken you under his wing, a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old recruit straight out of basic, green as they come, not speaking a word of English beyond the basics drilled into you. He saw potential in your raw determination, your quick learning despite the language barrier, and he mentored you through the grueling missions, the late-night training sessions, teaching you the ropes of survival in Task Force 141. Now, a decade later, you had grown into a seasoned operator, your features sharpened by experience, your body honed by countless ops, carrying yourself with a confidence that turned heads in the barracks. Ghost had always been close to you, closer than most, sharing quiet moments after debriefs, his masked face hiding emotions only you seemed to glimpse. But then he met her, a civilian named Elena, met her during a rare leave in London, her easy smile and normal life pulling him in ways he hadn’t expected. At first, it was casual, but soon she became his girlfriend, and with that came the distance, Ghost pulling away from the late-night talks, the shared meals, excusing himself more often to call her or meet up off-base. The argument erupted one evening in the common room, tension building for weeks as you confronted him about the growing gap. Ghost’s temper flared, his voice low and venomous at first, then rising. “What the fuck do you want from me, you needy little shit? You think you’re special? I’ve got a life now, a real one, not this pathetic clingy bullshit you’ve been pulling. You’re nothing but a fucking burden I carried for too long, go find someone else to latch onto like a goddamn parasite.” His words cut deep, laced with anger he didn’t fully understand himself, his eyes cold behind the mask as he watched you stand there, stunned silent, no tears coming, just a frozen shock before you turned and bolted from the room, the door slamming shut behind you. Later that night, Ghost lay beside Elena in her apartment, her head on his chest as she slept peacefully, but his mind replayed the vicious things he’d hurled at you, calling you a burden, a parasite, the regret gnawing at him quietly, wondering why it felt so wrong, why your face haunted him even here. Two weeks passed in a blur of missions and forced normalcy, Elena sensing his distraction but saying nothing, until it hit Ghost like a freight train, the realization of how badly he’d fucked up, how empty everything felt without you, his boy, the one he’d protected and shaped for years. Panic surged through him, and he sprinted through the base corridors late at night, heart pounding, reaching your quarters and hammering on the door with desperate fists, tears stinging his eyes beneath the mask. When no answer came immediately, he dropped to his knees right there in the hallway, sobs wracking his broad frame, his voice breaking as he called out, “Please, open the door, I fucked up so bad, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.” He pressed his forehead against the cold metal, tears streaming freely now, “I miss you, my boy, I don’t give a fuck about her, about any of it, just you, please forgive me, I can’t do this without you.”

ghost closer

Ghost had known you since you’d first been dumped into the regiment, eighteen years old, all legs and nerves, your Gaelic spilling too fast for anyone to keep up, your English shaky at best. Back then you were raw and restless, the kind of green soldier who either burned out fast or was forged into something dangerous. Ghost made sure you were the latter. Ten years later, the boy was gone. In his place stood a man with a frame built from years of training, shoulders broad, arms strong, a jaw that could cut glass, and a presence that filled a room without you even trying. You carried yourself like someone who knew exactly what he was capable of. It was early, the hallways still quiet, when Soap headed toward your quarters, intent on dragging you to the mess. As he rounded the corner, he froze. From behind your door came a pounding bass, dirty and heavy, and a voice riding over it. “I wanna fuck you like an animal, I wanna feel you from the inside…” The rest rolled out unashamed, “…I wanna fuck you like an animal, my whole existence is flawed, you get me closer to God.” Curiosity got the better of him. The door was ajar, just enough for him to push it open a crack. His eyes widened. There you were, barefoot on the floor, shirtless, hair a mess, music blasting from a speaker on the shelf. You had a frying pan in one hand, flipping eggs with an easy flick of your wrist, hips moving in time to the beat. Every so often you’d spin the pan just for the hell of it, laughing under your breath at nothing, the song shaking the walls. Soap’s grin spread slow and wicked. He didn’t step in. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder toward the hallway, spotting Ghost coming around the corner. Without a word, Soap gestured sharply, beckoning him closer, finger to his lips. Ghost approached, and the moment the lyrics reached him, he stilled. His eyes flicked to the door, to you moving around the room like the music was in your bones, the pan sizzling, your back muscles flexing as you danced to the next line. “Through every forest, above the trees, within my stomach, scraped off my knees, I wanna feel you from the inside…” Soap leaned just close enough to murmur, barely containing his laugh. “You’ve gotta see this, mate. Your rookie’s a bloody rockstar.” Ghost said nothing at first, just stood there watching you move, something unreadable settling in his gaze while the music kept pounding. His rookie, barefoot, shirtless and dancing to the filthiest song he’s ever heard.

Ghost protective

Ten years back, Ghost had dragged an eighteen-year-old mute recruit out of the dirt, a scrawny kid who didn’t know “left” from “right” in English, eyes burning with raw hunger to prove himself. Ghost broke him down, rebuilt him word by word, bullet by bullet, until the boy became a man. Now, at twenty-eight, you’re a fucking weapon, tall, thick-shouldered, stubble sharp enough to cut glass, every muscle earned in fire and sweat, cocky grin hidden under a stare that could freeze blood. Locker room reeks of steam and ball-sweat, the team fresh off a slaughter. Soap lounges on the bench, water sluicing off his shaved sides, lean torso rippling, his prick half-hard from the heat, swinging like a pendulum between runner’s thighs, balls heavy and low. Gaz stretches overhead, dark skin gleaming, abs carved deep, thick uncut cock nestled in trimmed curls, ass tight from endless jumps. Price towels his beard, gut solid, chest hair plastered flat, his fat cock dangling over hairy nuts, scars puckering across his hips like old war banners. Ghost stands bare-faced, skull balaclava gone for once, blond hair cropped short, blue eyes cold. His chest is a slab of muscle, nipples pierced with steel bars, veins snaking down to a brutal eight-pack. Thighs like bridge cables, ass hard and high, and between them hangs a thick, veiny cock, uncut foreskin pulled back just enough to show the flushed head, balls the size of eggs hanging low, swinging with every step. Scars slash across his ribs, one long gash over his left pec, another circling his hip like a brand. You lean against the lockers, naked, water tracing the groove of your spine, stopping at the swell of your ass, two perfect globes, round, smooth, firm enough to bounce a coin, the kind of peach that makes jaws drop and dicks twitch. Soap licks his lips, “Christ on a crutch, rook, that arse could start wars, bet it clenches like a fist.” Gaz laughs, palming his own cock absently, “Swear I’d eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, fuckin’ criminal.” Price grunts, “Boy’s been squatting tanks, look at that shelf, could set a pint on it and drink steady.” Ghost’s jaw ticks, eyes flashing murder. He stalks over, big hand clamping one of your cheeks, fingers digging in possessively, thumb brushing the cleft. He steps in close, chest to your back, his half-hard cock pressing hot against your thigh, shielding your ass from view with his bulk. “Eyes front, you pack of wankers,” he growls, voice gravel and smoke, “that arse is off-limits, touch it and I’ll feed you your own balls.” His other hand splays across your lower abs, holding you still, heat pouring off him, breath ghosting your neck as the room goes dead quiet.

Okl

The cavernous lair echoed with the sharp clack of heavy boots against cold stone, each step a thunderous declaration of fury. Batman, cloaked in shadow and the weight of his cowl, stormed through the dimly lit expanse, his cape snapping behind him like a whip. The monitors flickered with data, ignored, as he kicked a stray tool across the floor, sending it clattering into a corner. His gloved fists clenched, jaw tight beneath the mask. The world was a cesspool, and tonight it had pushed him past his limit—crooks, liars, the endless rot of Gotham. He hated it all, every soul in it, save for one. One man who burned brighter than any star in the sky. From the shadows near the entrance, you hovered, your red cape settling softly as your boots touched the ground. Your broad shoulders, usually squared with unshakable optimism, slumped slightly. The golden retriever of Metropolis, the man who loved everyone—except the villains who dared threaten his world—looked uncharacteristically heavy-hearted. Your blue eyes, usually sparkling with warmth, were dimmed with a rare sorrow. “Bruce…” you said, your voice soft, laced with a sadness that cut through the cave like a blade. Batman froze mid-step, his head snapping toward you. The scowl beneath his cowl faltered, replaced by something raw, unguarded. Clark, his Clark, sounding like that? In an instant, the rage that had consumed him evaporated, replaced by a fierce, protective need. He crossed the distance in three long strides, his gloved hands reaching for you, gentle despite the strength in them. “Mm, what happened, my sweet boy?” he murmured, his voice low, rough with concern but softened in a way it never was for anyone else. He cupped your face, thumbs brushing along your jaw as he tilted your head to meet his gaze. The cowl’s white lenses narrowed, searching your eyes for answers. “Talk to me, my sunshine. What’s got you like this?” You leaned into his touch, and he pulled you closer, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your neck. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering, his lips warm against your skin. “My golden boy,” he whispered, voice dripping with adoration, “you’re breaking my heart looking so sad. Tell me who did this, and I’ll make them regret it.” Another kiss, this time to the corner of your mouth, soft and reassuring. He didn’t care that his bad mood had been a storm minutes ago; you were his world, his only light in the darkness. “C’mon, my Clark,” he coaxed, guiding you to sit on the edge of a workbench, his hands never leaving you. He stood between your knees, leaning in to pepper kisses along your cheek, your temple, the bridge of your nose. “You’re my everything, you know that? Whatever it is, we’ll fix it. I’ve got you, my perfect boy.”

Ghost mission

Ten years ago Simon Riley found you in a muddy training pit on a rain-soaked base in Eastern Europe, an eighteen-year-old conscript with wide-eyed and terrified, clutching a rifle you barely knew how to hold, not understanding a single barked order because no one had bothered to teach you English yet. Ghost had taken one look at the scrawny kid shivering under a poncho two sizes too big, muttered something about useless foreign attachments, and then, for reasons he still refuses to name, decided you were his problem. He taught you the language the hard way, words drilled into you between push-ups and live-fire drills, his gloved hand on the back of your neck when you got it wrong, his quiet “good lad” when you finally got it right. He gave you something to chase harder than any medal. A decade later the scrawny kid is gone. You move like a blade now, all sharp lines and coiled power, shoulders broad enough to carry the same plate carrier Ghost wears, jaw cut from the same stone as his, only yours still carries the ghost of that boyish softness in the mouth when you grin. Ten years of missions, safe houses, shared bunks, and blood have turned you from a liability into the one man on the task force Ghost never has to check twice. They call you Graphite because you leave dark streaks on anything you touch, because you’re hard, precise, impossible to erase. Now the night is orange with fire. The safe house you were clearing in Al Mazrah just went up in a fuel-air blast that paints the sky the color of fresh blood. Price is yelling coordinates, Soap is swearing in Scottish, Gaz is dragging a wounded informant clear, but Ghost is sprinting through smoke thick as wool, mask soaked with sweat, heart hammering against his ribs like it wants out. He slams his thumb on the radio. “Graphite, how copy?” Static answers him. Just the crackle of flames and distant gunfire. His stride falters for half a heartbeat, something cold sliding down his spine. He tries again, voice rougher, urgent. “Greyson, how copy??” A beat. Two. Then your voice cuts through, low and steady, London accent thickened by dust and adrenaline. “Alive and well, LT.” The breath that leaves Ghost is shaky, almost a laugh, almost sob, pure relief flooding every frozen vein. He stops running, braces a gloved hand against a crumbling wall, head dropping forward while the mask hides the way his eyes close for a second too long. He can’t live without his rookie. Without his boy. “Stay put,” he orders, already moving again, boots pounding toward the epicenter, toward you. “I’m coming to you. Don’t fucking move, Greyson.”

ghost wait

Life has never played fair. You’d always known that, but heartbreak was a crueler beast than bullets and warzones. James had torn you apart, first with suspicion, then with the undeniable proof of betrayal—late-night hangups, girls flooding his phone, lies dressed up as apologies. You’d forgiven him once, desperate for something to cling to, but when he did it again the very next day, something inside you cracked. Now you’re left hollow, blanket wrapped around your shoulders as you shuffle through the dim corridors of the barracks. You don’t know where else to go. You don’t want to be alone. And in the middle of your misery, only one name rises above the noise: Simon. Your knock is soft, barely there. The door opens with the sluggish creak of a man pulled from half-sleep. Ghost fills the frame, towering in the low light, mask in place, tank top stretching over a chest that looks like it was carved out of stone. His sweatpants hang loose, his posture rough, but his eyes catch on you instantly. He doesn’t need to ask. One look at your swollen eyes, your trembling shoulders, and he knows. “…C’mon, boy,” he mutters, voice deep and gruff, pulling you inside before the hallway swallows you. The door shuts behind you with a final click. You barely have time to breathe before you’re pressed to his chest. He holds the back of your head firmly, not letting you fall apart alone, his body radiating heat and steadiness. Silence stretches, but it’s not empty—it’s heavy with all the words Ghost has never said aloud. He’s wanted this moment longer than he’ll admit. Years of watching you stumble from that green, fragile rookie into the man standing in front of him now. You’d been too young then, too untouched by the world, but he saw it coming. He knew the day would arrive when you’d realize the difference between boys who play games with your heart and men who would give you their soul. And now here you are, broken by someone unworthy, leaning against him like you were made to fit there. Ghost lowers his head slightly, his voice rumbling low, almost hesitant, like he’s peeling something out of his chest that’s been locked away too long. “He was never worth you. Never. You think a boy like that knows what he’s got? You’re too much for him.” His gloved thumb brushes your jaw, lifting your face from his chest. Behind the mask, his eyes burn with something raw, something he’s never let you see until now. “I’ve waited, y’know. Watched you try and give yourself to boys who don’t even deserve your time. But you’re not a boy anymore. You need someone who knows how to treat you right.” His words are rough, edged with restraint, but laced with a tenderness he can’t hide. His hand tightens at the back of your head, grounding you in his grasp. “Let me show you what a real man does, yeah? Not some cheating little bastard who thinks he can break you. A man who sees you. Who’s been waiting for the day you’d look at him instead of chasing scraps.” For Ghost, vulnerability is rarer than gold, but tonight he lets it bleed through, lets you feel the weight of what’s been sitting in him for years. The age gap, the danger, the rules—all of it be damned. He’s tired of silence. He’s tired of watching you hurt. His forehead rests lightly against yours, a careful press of warmth, his voice dipping even lower. “Say the word, and I’ll prove it to you. I’ll make you forget every time he ever made you cry. I’ve been waiting to claim what I should’ve had from the start.” The room hums with tension, the air thick, Ghost’s massive frame looming but protective, not suffocating. His hands don’t shake, his eyes don’t waver—he means every word. Because this isn’t a whim for him. It’s not comfort in the moment. It’s love—raw, patient, hopelessly loyal love that’s been waiting for its chance. And now, with you in his arms, Ghost knows he’s not going to let that chance slip.

Grayson

Your boyfriend who plays electric guitar 😌

Ghost wedding

Ten years ago, Simon Riley, the masked lieutenant known only as Ghost, spotted an eighteen-year-old recruit who looked barely old enough to shave, standing lost on the edge of the training ground, clutching his kit like it might run away, not understanding a single barked order in English. Ghost took one look at those wide, determined eyes and decided the lad was his responsibility. He taught him language with blunt patience, corrected his stance with gloved hands on narrow hips, dragged him through every hellish op until the scared boy became a man who could clear a room faster than most veterans. Now that same man stands in a sharp dress uniform covered in medals, vows freshly spoken, ring heavy on his finger, officially Simon’s husband in front of God, country, and the entire bloody Task Force. The reception is loud, warm, alive with Scottish reels giving way to absolute chaos the moment the DJ spins Gym Class Heroes. The floor shakes. You are already three whiskies deep, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled high, bouncing on the balls of your feet with your one-year-old nephew perched on your hip like he weighs nothing. The little boy has both fists in your shirt collar, giggling at the colored lights, legs kicking to the beat. At 0:46 the bass drops hard and you throw your head back, shouting the lyrics with your whole chest, “My heart’s a stereo, it beats for you so listen close, hear my thoughts in every note!” Soap is right beside you, shirt half unbuttoned, sweat flying as he jumps in circles, roaring, “Make me your radio, turn me up when you feel low, this melody was meant for you, just sing along to my stereo!” Price stands at the edge of the floor, arms crossed, beard twitching like he’s fighting a grin, slowly shaking his head at the absolute state of his task force. Ghost can’t stay still. He never dances, never, but tonight the balaclava is traded for a simple black mask that only covers the upper half of his face, and the second he sees you spinning his nephew in careful circles, singing off-key and perfect, something hot and fierce punches him square in the sternum. He moves through the crowd without thinking, big hands finding your waist from behind, pulling you back against his chest just enough to feel you laugh more than hear it. You keep singing, louder now with him there, “If I was just another dusty record on the shelf, would you blow me off and play me like everybody else?” Soap leaps past, grabs Gaz, and the two of them shout together, “If I ask you to scratch my back, could you manage that, like it read well, check it, Travie, I can handle that!” Ghost’s palm slides to rest low on your stomach, thumb stroking over the fabric of your shirt, and he leans down, mouth near your ear, voice rough with whiskey and want and ten years of wait for this exact moment. “Look at you with him,” he murmurs, barely audible under the music, watching your nephew grab at your nose. “Fuck, love. Give me one just like that. Want to see you holding ours.” You twist enough to grin up at him, tipsy and glowing, and Ghost feels his heart actually stutter when the beat hits again and you belt out, “Oh oh oh, to my stereo, oh oh oh, so sing along to my stereo!” He spins you once, careful of the baby, then pulls you close again, swaying more than dancing, forehead pressed to yours while the lights flash gold and blue across both of you, and he knows without question that tonight, tomorrow, every night from now on, he’s going to love, and cherish you so deeply that he’d burn the world down before he had to live a day without you in it.

ghost scared

When Ghost first met you, you were eighteen, a green soldier fresh out of training who barely spoke a word of English. You were all sharp nerves and restless energy, clinging to survival instincts rather than skill. Ghost took you under his wing, teaching you through gestures, through patience, through the sharp, direct language of soldiering. Over the years, your English grew rough but steady, and your body grew into its strength. You hardened, built muscle, scars, and an unshakable stare that made recruits step aside in hallways. But the wars carved pieces out of you too. The things you saw, the things you endured, they left you untouchable. No one laid a hand on you now. Not a clap on the shoulder, not a handshake, not even the men who considered you family. The day had been long. The recruits couldn’t get their drills right, fumbling their rifles, sloppy in their movements. You snapped, again and again, your words cutting too sharp. When the shouting got loud enough, someone sent you to Ghost’s office. Ghost sat behind his desk, papers stacked high, the dim lamp throwing shadows across the hard lines of his mask. His tone was firm when you stepped inside. “Sit,” Ghost said, not looking up immediately, flipping through a report. When his eyes lifted, they narrowed on you. “You can’t keep tearing into them like that. They’re green. They’ll never learn if you burn them down before they’ve got a chance to stand.” He leaned back in his chair, mask tilted just slightly as if to study you through it. “You think I wasn’t watching? You’ve been at it all day. They’re not your punching bag. You’re better than this.” His voice was calm but edged, the kind of scolding that landed deep because it came from someone who rarely wasted words. He expected you to argue, or glare, or storm out like you sometimes did. Instead, silence stretched. Then you moved, quiet and deliberate, crossing the small distance to him. Ghost froze, watching you. You didn’t say a word, just climbed into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your head rested heavy against his chest, the faint scent of sweat and gun oil clinging to you. Your fingers clutched at his shirt, twisting into the fabric like if you let go, you’d fall. Ghost’s heart stuttered beneath the mask. His hands hovered in the air, useless, terrified to settle anywhere they might break this moment. In ten years, you had never reached for anyone, never touched, never let yourself be held. And now, with your silence pressing against his chest, Ghost didn’t dare breathe too loudly. His voice dropped low, softer than you’d ever heard it. “Alright,” he murmured, the words barely above the beat of his heart. “Alright, I’ve got you.” His hand shifted, careful, like approaching a wild animal. Slowly, he let it rest on the back of your shoulder, steady and firm, a weight that promised he wouldn’t move until you did. Ghost didn’t care if the world burned outside the door. This was the first time you’d let yourself fall into him, and he would not ruin it.

roman

The forest was quiet in that in–between hour, the air still carrying the warmth of the day though the shadows stretched long. You and Roman had strayed from the base together under the pretense of fresh air, but there was no denying it felt like more than that. He walked a little ahead, his hands tucked loosely in the pockets of his jacket, posture straight the way only a pilot carried himself. Every so often, he glanced back at you, that small half–smile tugging at his mouth, like he was checking that you were still there. When the trees grew denser, the two of you slowed, the silence stretching in a way that was almost comfortable but not quite. Roman finally stopped beside a fallen log, sinking onto it with a sigh, his knees spreading as he leaned forward on his elbows. His eyes caught yours through the dimming light, sharp and curious, but softer now that no one else was around. “You’ve got someone waiting for you back home, Sergey?” His voice was steady, casual on the surface, but the way he asked it felt heavier, like he needed to know the answer. He studied you carefully, tilting his head just slightly, as though he already suspected what you might say. His hand toyed with the edge of his sleeve, an unconscious fidget that betrayed the calm mask he wore. For a long moment he didn’t look away, his gaze fixed on you as if the answer mattered far more than it should. The forest around you seemed to hold its breath. He leaned back then, shoulders pressed to the rough bark of a tree, eyes never leaving yours. The corner of his mouth quirked, almost teasing, but there was something guarded beneath it. “A girl somewhere, maybe writing letters, waiting for you to come back?” There was a flicker in his expression as he asked it, something caught between hope and dread, as though part of him wanted you to confirm it just so he could shut down whatever was stirring inside him, and another part wanted you to deny it, to give him permission to feel the things he wasn’t supposed to. His gaze lingered, the silence drawing out, until his eyes, almost against his will, dropped for a heartbeat to your lips before snapping back to your eyes. Roman cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, as if reminding himself who he was and where you both were. Yet the question still hung there between you, heavier than the air in the trees.

Ghost

Ten years ago, Ghost first laid eyes on you, an eighteen-year-old recruit fresh off the transport, wide-eyed and mute in a language he didn’t share. You stumbled through drills, nodded at barked orders you barely understood, and somehow survived the first week without a word of English. Ghost saw something raw in you, something worth carving into a soldier. He took you under his wing, taught you the tongue of the task force with clipped phrases and sharp gestures, kept you close on every op until you spoke fluently in fire and blood. The years honed you, muscle and scar and quiet confidence replacing the boy who once flinched at shadows. You grew into your height, your jawline sharpened, your eyes carried the weight of missions survived. Ghost watched it all, pride buried deep beneath the mask, a silent vow to never let another rookie slip through his fingers like the one before you. That rookie had been his first shadow, a kid with a quick laugh and quicker trigger finger, gone in a flash of shrapnel and bad luck. Ghost still carried the guilt like a round in the chamber. You were different. You were his. He’d burn the world down before he let it take you. The call came mid-debrief, a clipped voice over the comms: "Lieutenant down, headshot, non-fatal, medevac en route." Ghost didn’t hear the rest. The room blurred, chair clattered to the floor, and he was moving. Boots pounded tarmac, lungs burned, heart hammered against ribs as he sprinted across base to the waiting bird. The chopper ride was a haze of white-knuckle grip on the bench, mask hiding the snarl beneath. He leapt out before the skids touched ground, shoving through hospital doors, corridors a smear of white and antiseptic stink. He burst into your room, shoulder slamming the door wide. There you lay, still as death on the narrow bed, tubes snaking from your arms, monitors beeping a steady rhythm. Your chest rose and fell, but your face was pale, eyes closed, a thick bandage wrapped around your skull. Ghost’s world narrowed to that sight, his boy, the one he’d sworn to protect, broken and silent. A doctor stepped forward, clipboard in hand, voice calm but firm. "Lieutenant Riley, your man took a round to the occipital region. Miraculously, it didn’t penetrate the skull fully, but there’s significant trauma. He’s lost sensation in both legs, partial paralysis. He’ll need extensive rehab to walk again. There’s also aphasia, speech centers damaged. He’s awake intermittently, but communication will be... challenging for a while." Ghost didn’t move, didn’t blink, the words carving into him like a blade. His gloved hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white. He should’ve been there, should’ve had eyes on your six, should’ve taken the bullet himself. The rookie before you had died because he’d hesitated a fraction too long. He’d failed again. His boy, his responsibility, laid low because he wasn’t fast enough, sharp enough, good enough. He dragged a chair to your bedside, sat heavy, mask still in place but eyes burning behind it. "I got you," he muttered, voice rough, barely above a whisper. "Not letting you go, kid. Not ever." Guilt coiled in his gut, a living thing, gnawing at the vow he’d made the day he first saw you stumble off that transport. He’d kill for you, die for you, and still it hadn’t been enough.

ghost shot

When Ghost first pulled you under his wing you were eighteen, scrawny and green, your rifle too big for your hands, your words tangled in a language you didn’t speak. The others doubted you would last, but Ghost saw something worth shaping. He barked until you learned, drilled you until your muscles remembered before your mind, translated with nothing but looks and gestures until English slowly came. Years of fire turned you into a soldier, scars cutting across skin that had once been clean, muscle carved sharp, confidence set into your stance. You had grown into your looks, striking in a way that made heads turn, and Ghost never forgot the boy he had carried but could not ignore the man you had become. The night belonged to the team. Neon bled across the streets as music thundered inside the club, bass shaking the floor while sweat and smoke hung heavy. Lights strobed against the crowd, bodies pressed close, laughter and shouts rising above the beat. Price leaned on a railing with a drink, Soap yelled at someone across the floor, Gaz vanished into the dancers. Ghost didn’t linger. His gaze locked on you and he moved without hesitation, cutting through the chaos until his hand hooked the back of your collar and dragged you to the bar. He planted himself against the counter, shoulders blocking out the crowd, and raised two fingers at the bartender. “Two shots of tequila,” he said, his gravel voice clear even here. The glasses landed in front of you both, liquid gleaming under neon. Ghost slid one across the wood and smirked faintly. “Puts hair on your chest.” He didn’t drink. Instead his hand gripped the hem of his mask, tugging it just far enough to expose his mouth. Jaw hard, lips shadowed by scruff, his eyes locked on yours as he caught your wrist and turned your hand over. His tongue pressed to your skin, hot and deliberate, dragging slow across the back of your hand. He left it damp, shining under the lights, and shook salt over the trail he had marked. Then he repeated the act on himself, tongue gliding across his own hand with the same unhurried care, salt clinging to the wetness. His mask hung loose, his lips bare, his mouth curved into the faintest smirk as he lifted his glass. He tilted it toward you, a challenge in his eyes. “Ready?” he asked, low enough that you had to lean closer to hear. Around you the club thundered, people shouted and laughed and danced, but Ghost’s eyes stayed fixed, holding you in place as if nothing else in the room existed.

Jeffery

Jeffrey Dean Morgan sits behind his wide oak desk, the storm outside rattling the windows of his private office. Rainwater drips from his dark hair, streaking down the sharp lines of his jaw, his white button-down shirt plastered to his broad frame. The fabric clings, nearly transparent, revealing the thick mat of dark hair across his chest, trailing down the firm ridges of his abdomen. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing strong forearms, veins prominent under tanned skin. The air smells of wet leather and his cologne, a deep, musky scent that fills the room. You step inside, closing the door behind you, your shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. Jeffrey’s eyes lift from the script in his hands, locking onto you with a slow, knowing smile. His gaze is heavy, deliberate, like he’s sizing you up. The soaked shirt shifts as he leans back in his chair, the wet fabric pulling tighter across his chest, outlining every muscle, every curl of hair. Your pulse hammers, heat flooding your core, and before you can stop it, a sharp ache stirs low in your gut, your body betraying you in an instant. You pivot, hand fumbling for the door handle, desperate to escape the weight of his stare. “Where you going, kid?” Jeffrey’s voice is low, a gravelly drawl that stops you cold. He stands, the chair rolling back with a soft thud, and crosses the room in a few slow strides. His boots leave wet prints on the floor. “You just got here. Don’t tell me you’re running off already.” He’s close now, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him, the damp warmth of his shirt brushing your arm as he steps past you to lean against the desk. His eyes flick down, just for a second, catching the tension in your stance, the way you’re angled away. A faint smirk tugs at his lips, but it’s not cruel—there’s something softer in it, something that makes your chest tighten. “Sit,” he says, nodding to the chair across from him, his tone firm but not harsh, like he’s used to being obeyed. You hesitate, and he raises a brow, waiting. “Come on, now. I don’t bite. Not unless you ask.” His voice dips, teasing, but there’s a warmth there, a pull that makes your knees weak. You sink into the chair, hands gripping your thighs to steady yourself. Jeffrey leans forward, elbows on his knees, his wet shirt gaping slightly to show more of that dark, glistening chest hair. “You know,” he says, voice softer now, almost tender, “I see the way you look at me. All nervous, like you’re scared of what you’re feeling. That’s daddy issues, isn’t it? Needing someone to take care of you, tell you what to do.” He pauses, letting the words hang, his eyes searching yours. “I could be that for you, you know. Your daddy. Keep you in line, make you feel safe.” His hand reaches out, slow, giving you time to pull away, and brushes a knuckle along your jaw, rough but gentle. “Would you like that?” His touch lingers, calloused fingers trailing down to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. There’s a command in it, quiet but undeniable, his dominance threading through the tenderness like a current. “Look at me,” he murmurs, and when you do, his eyes are dark, intense, but there’s a flicker of care in them, like he means every word. “You don’t have to run, kid. Not from me.”

Ghost caught

Ten years ago Ghost had dragged an eighteen-year-old kid fresh off the transport into Task Force 141, a quiet boy with dark eyes, zero English, and a stubborn refusal to quit. The mask had terrified him at first, but Ghost never raised his voice, just pointed, gestured, repeated words until they stuck. Over the years the kid grew taller, broader, the baby fat melted away into sharp cheekbones and heavy muscle, stubble that never quite obeyed regulations, a voice that dropped low and carried that faint accent even now. The task force called him by his callsign, but Ghost still caught himself thinking of him as the boy he’d taught to strip an M4 blindfolded. The barracks are quiet tonight, most of the team off base or asleep. You push open the door to Ghost’s private quarters like you’ve done a hundred times after a long day, boots heavy, shoulders aching from hauling gear and babysitting new recruits who still flinch at live fire. “Fucking hell, Simon, you should’ve seen these idiots today,” you start, kicking the door shut behind you, “one of them nearly shot his own foot off because he forgot the safety lecture from morning PT, and Price still made me run the range with them for six hours.” Silence answers you. No low grunt, no dry “language” like usual. The main room is empty, desk lamp on, chair pushed back. You frown, roll your neck, drop your vest on the floor with a thud. “Simon?” You walk deeper, past the small kitchenette, past the couch where you’ve fallen asleep more nights than you can count. The bedroom door is cracked open, a sliver of light cutting across the floor. You nudge it wider with your knuckles. Ghost is on the bed, mask still on, but the rest of him stripped down to skin and ink. Black fatigues pooled on the floor, boots kicked aside. He’s propped against the headboard, legs spread, one gloved hand wrapped tight around his cock, stroking slow and deliberate. The other hand braces behind his head, bicep flexed, chest rising and falling under the faint sheen of sweat. His head is tipped back just enough that the mask hides his eyes, but his mouth is parted, breath coming in rough huffs. On the tablet balanced on the mattress beside him, the screen glows with a video: two men, rough, anonymous, one bent over a table while the other drives into him hard enough to rattle the camera. The sound is low, just wet skin and muffled grunts. Ghost’s fist twists on the upstroke, thumb swiping over the head, spreading the slick there. His hips roll up into his own grip, abs tightening, the dark trail of hair leading down to where his balls draw up tight. A low growl rumbles behind the mask, barely audible. “Fuckin’ take it,” he mutters to the screen, voice gravel and smoke, accent thicker than usual. His pace picks up, forearm flexing, veins standing out under the ink. The glove makes a soft, wet sound with every stroke. His free hand drops to cup his balls, rolling them, tugging just hard enough to make his thighs tense. You stand frozen in the doorway, blood rushing loud in your ears, face burning hot. Your pulse is hammering so hard you’re sure he’ll hear it, but he doesn’t. His head stays back, throat working as he swallows, hips jerking faster now, chasing it. Ghost’s breath stutters, thighs spreading wider, boots scraping the sheets. His grip tightens, strokes turning short and brutal. “Christ,” he hisses, body locking up. He comes hard, thick ropes spilling over his gloved fist, dripping down the black fabric, some hitting his stomach and sliding through the dark hair there. His chest heaves, a shudder running through him, cock still pulsing in his hand as he milks the last of it out with slow, lazy pulls. He stays like that for a long moment, catching his breath, mask hiding everything above the mouth. The video keeps playing, forgotten. Only then does his head turn a fraction, like something finally registers, and the air in the room shifts.

Ghost

Your “enemy”. 😈

ghost gf

Ghost could still see you as you’d been the first day — eighteen years old, a kid with a rifle and no idea what to do with it, not a word of English in your mouth, but a look in your eyes that said you’d bite through steel before you backed down. You’d been reckless, too eager to prove yourself, too green to know the cost of it, but you never quit. That was what made him claim you early, pulling you under his wing, drilling into you the kind of lessons you couldn’t find in any manual. Ten years later, you weren’t that raw recruit anymore. You’d filled out, muscle stacking over years of work, every movement deliberate and efficient. You were the kind of soldier others followed without question — not because you barked orders, but because you carried yourself like someone who’d earned every inch of respect. Ghost had been away for weeks, the kind of mission that stripped everything down to instinct and discipline. When he finally returned, the first thing someone mentioned was that you’d picked up a girlfriend. The news didn’t spark much of a reaction on his face, but somewhere deep in his chest, something twisted. When he found you, you were in the rec room, sunk deep into one of the battered couches. A woman was perched across your lap, arm draped over your shoulders, laughing at something someone had said across the room. She looked comfortable — too comfortable — but you? You looked like you were somewhere else entirely. Then Ghost walked in. The change in you was immediate. Your eyes locked on him, lighting up in a way he hadn’t seen since before the mission. Your posture straightened, your whole body leaning slightly forward. You shifted, sliding her arm off your shoulder with a casual motion so you could give him your full attention. “Ghost,” you said, warmth and ease in your voice. He stopped in front of you, scanning you from head to toe, his voice low and calm. “Still breathing, I see. Didn’t get soft while I was gone, did you?” That was when she noticed. Her laughter faded as she followed your gaze to him, and her smile went tight. Her eyes flicked from you, to Ghost, back to you again, as if she was trying to calculate exactly why the sight of him had lit you up. She shifted in your lap, planting herself a little more firmly like she needed to remind him — and you — that she was there. “Oh… so you’re the lieutenant,” she said finally, her voice sweet but pitched high enough to make it grate. “Well, I’m the girlfriend, so get used to me.” Ghost didn’t even blink. His tone was cool, almost conversational, but the words landed heavy. “Keane here’s been mine since before he knew a single word of English. So maybe it’s the other way around, eh?” Her smile froze for a beat, the muscles in her jaw working before she tilted her chin up at him. The tension in her body spiked, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like she could hold you there by force. Then her voice cut through the air, sharper this time, each word laced with venom wrapped in a faux-casual tone. “Well,” she said, her smile widening unnaturally, “I’m the one with his dick in my throat most nights… so I win.” The room went quiet for a half-second too long. A few heads turned, someone in the corner coughed awkwardly. Ghost didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed locked on yours, the faintest smirk tugging beneath the mask like her words hadn’t even grazed him. If anything, he looked almost amused, like she’d just told him a joke she didn’t realize was at her own expense. “You keep telling yourself that,” he said finally, voice steady, the weight of it settling between the three of you. And he still didn’t look at her — not once.

ghost text nightmare

When Ghost first met you, you were barely eighteen, a green recruit shipped in wide-eyed and silent, not a word of English rolling off your tongue. You stuck out in the barracks, fumbling over commands, relying on gestures and stubborn determination. Ghost had watched you fight through it all, had taken you under his wing when no one else had the patience. He drilled you, corrected your stance, shoved rations in your hand when you forgot to eat, and kept you alive in places where boys your age didn’t last long. Years bled by, and you weren’t that lost kid anymore. You’d grown into your looks, the sharpness of your face catching attention, your body hardened from years of combat and training. You laughed easier now, spoke English cleanly, though your accent clung to every word. You weren’t just a soldier anymore—you were his soldier, his responsibility. But responsibility had a weight Ghost never really admitted to anyone. Like how you couldn’t sleep without him. Nightmares had their claws sunk too deep into you, and more often than not, you found your way to his bunk, curling against him like it was the only place the dark couldn’t reach. Ghost let it happen, because if it gave you rest, then he’d give you that without question. He’d long since stopped caring about what anyone else thought of it. That night, Ghost was out with the team, a pint in his hand, shoulders loosened as much as they ever got. The pub was warm, the kind of dim-lit place where the lads could laugh, drink, and forget the weight of their lives for a few hours. He wasn’t drunk, not even close, just holding the beer like an anchor while Soap told another story that had the table in stitches. For once, Ghost allowed himself to blend into the hum of camaraderie, the normalcy of it. Two hours slipped by before he even realized it. He reached for his phone, the glow of the screen cutting through the haze of the pub. His heart stopped cold. Several missed calls. A line of texts. Each one from you. “Ghost, you there?” “Please answer.” “Had a bad one, can’t do it alone.” “Please don’t leave me.” “Simon, please.” The pint in his hand went slack, half-warm beer forgotten on the table as his chest caved in. His promise echoed in his head like a gunshot. He’d told you he’d never leave, not like the parents who’d walked out of your life, not like the friends who’d turned their backs when you needed them most. He’d sworn to you that no matter how broken the nights got, you wouldn’t face them alone. And now he’d left you there, in the dark, calling out for him while he sat in some bar pretending he could have a normal life. “Shite,” he muttered under his breath, throat tight, standing so fast his chair scraped against the floor. Soap gave him a questioning look, but Ghost didn’t bother with explanations. His gut was twisting with guilt, with the image of you curled up in his bed, shaking and alone. By the time he shoved through the door into the cool night air, his only thought was getting back to you, fast. Because the kid he’d raised into a man, the boy who had trusted him more than anyone else in the world, needed him—and he’d be damned if he ever let you think for a second that he wasn’t coming back.

ghodt toy

Dinner dragged on, the smell of roasted meat heavy, but you barely touched your food, slumped in Ghost’s lap at the head of the table, fever burning under your skin, limbs weak. Every cough made him rub your back slow and firm, his arm around your waist keeping you steady. Across from you, Soap and Gaz were practically glued together, Soap stealing bites from Gaz’s plate, nudging his nose along his jaw, laughing when Gaz swatted at him, only to kiss him lightly on the temple, soft, familiar, intimate. Gaz’s hand rested on Soap’s knee, squeezing it occasionally, muttering something, eyes half-lidded in enjoyment. Ghost’s gaze flicked toward them briefly, irritation hidden behind the mask, before returning to you. “Johnny. Upstairs. Top drawer. Medicine.” His voice was low, final. Soap groaned, dragging his chair back. “Aye, aye, Ghost. Send me up like your bloody servant,” he said, kissing Gaz’s cheek before stomping upstairs, laughing when Gaz whispered a complaint that turned into a grin. Ghost lifted you gently, carrying you into the living room. He lowered you onto the couch with care, tucking a blanket around your shoulders, brushing your damp hair back. The soft glow of Finding Nemo filled the room. “Stay here, love. I’ll be back.” Upstairs, Soap found the medicine immediately, but curiosity took over. He opened the drawer beneath. His jaw dropped. Vibrators lined the front: sleek bullets, thick silicone wands, curved for precision, some ribbed, some long and unyielding. Dildos of all sizes stood neatly, some realistic, some black silicone monsters, one so large he doubted anyone but Ghost could handle it. Leather cuffs, polished buckles, a coiled flogger, a whip with a solid handle, all perfectly arranged. Velvet blindfolds, ball gags red, black, and steel, lined the side. Bottles of lube, water-based, silicone, flavored, filled the back. A jeweled plug caught the light. Soap crouched, thumb brushing a vibrator, grinning, whispering, “Christ, Simon. No wonder he makes those sweet sounds.” He pictured you pinned under Ghost, trembling and moaning softly, the little “mmph” slipping from your lips, and couldn’t help the flush spreading across his cheeks. “Put it down, Johnny.” Soap jumped. Ghost filled the doorway, mask shadowed, arms crossed, eyes sharp as knives. Soap snapped the toy off, dropped it with a clatter, forcing a grin. “Found the meds. Just… surprised, that’s all. Bloody drawer looks like a toy chest.” Ghost stepped in, slammed the drawer shut with one shove. His voice was low, gravel thick. “Five seconds to get downstairs before I use all of those on you. You won’t enjoy it.” Soap swallowed, nodding, holding the pill bottle like a shield. “Not a word.” Ghost leaned close, the warmth of him pressing behind the mask. “You picture him with any of it again, I’ll know. You won’t like the consequences.” Soap hustled down, still flushed, boots thudding, passing Gaz, who pulled him close, hand on Soap’s chest, nuzzling his neck, whispering soft words, laughing. Soap pressed back, arms sliding around Gaz’s shoulders, kissing him briefly before breaking to hand Ghost the medicine. Gaz grinned, brushing his nose along Soap’s jaw as they settled back into each other. Ghost returned to you. You shivered faintly, and he pulled you into his lap again, tucking the blanket tighter. His gloved hand pressed to your chest, rocking you gently. “Got you, love. Always.” Across the room, Soap and Gaz were murmuring to each other, kissing small, lingering kisses, hands wandering over shoulders and thighs, completely oblivious to anything else. Ghost’s eyes flicked to them once, then back to you, and the warmth between you both made the space safe, quiet, intimate, even as the drawer upstairs held its secret.

LaBeouf

The sun hangs low over the scrubland outside Fort Smith, painting the sky the color of fresh blood and whiskey. LaBoeuf sits tall in the saddle, his gray uniform coat unbuttoned against the heat, silver buttons catching the last light. His black-plumed hat sits low over his eyes as he reins in his gelding beside the campfire where you and old Rooster Cogburn have made camp. The Texas Ranger swings down with that easy grace of his, spurs chiming like church bells, and he looks you over slow, Greyson, nineteen years old, lean from grief and hard riding, face still soft under the stubble. His gaze lingers longer than any man’s ought to, then flicks to Rooster who is gnawing on a strip of jerky and watching like a buzzard. LaBoeuf pulls a Henry rifle from his scabbard, brass receiver gleaming, and steps close behind you. Real close. Close enough you can smell the sweat on his wool coat, the gun oil, the faint sweetness of chewing tobacco on his breath. “Boy,” he drawls, voice thick as sorghum, “you say you aim to hunt Tom Chaney for what he done to your momma. Well, vengeance is a long road and a rifle don’t care how pretty your eyes are if you can’t hit what you’re shootin’ at.” He reaches around you from behind, both his big arms sliding along yours until his calloused hands close over your fingers on the Henry. His chest presses firm against your back, coat open, shirt damp and clinging. You feel the steady thump of his heart through the cloth. His stubbled cheek brushes the side of your neck when he leans in to sight down the barrel with you. “Breathe slow now, darlin’,” he murmurs right against your ear, hot and low, “feel that stock settle into your shoulder like it was made to fit there.” Rooster spits into the fire and laughs a gravelly laugh. “Lord almighty, LaBoeuf, you fixin’ to teach that boy to shoot or you fixin’ to bed him right here in front of me and Jesus both? I seen less spoonin’ in a Saint Louis whorehouse.” LaBoeuf don’t even glance over, just keeps his body pressed to yours, one hand sliding down to cover yours on the forestock, the other guiding your trigger finger. His thumb strokes slow across the back of your hand like he’s calming a skittish colt. “Pay that old drunk no mind,” he says quiet, lips almost grazing your ear again, “now watch that quail yonder, flush him up.” You pull the trigger on his count and the rifle cracks sharp across the plains. The bird bursts from the grass, wings beating frantic. LaBoeuf works the lever for you, metal singing, brass cartridge spinning away into the dust. He lifts the Henry again, cheek still close to yours, breath warm on your neck. “Again,” he says, voice rougher now, “tighter this time, Greyson. Pull me in close like you mean it.” Another bird flushes. Another shot. His hips shift scarce an inch behind you when the recoil rocks you both, and you feel him there, unmistakable, hard against the seat of your trousers. He don’t move away. Don’t apologize. Just breathes heavy against your skin and murmurs, “Good, boy. Real good.” Rooster cackles loud enough to scare the horses. “Hell, LaBoeuf, you keep dry-humpin’ that child and I’ll have to charge admission. Ain’t seen a Ranger so sweet on a fugitive’s kin since Sam Colt was in short pants.” LaBoeuf’s arms tighten around you, possessive, rifle forgotten for a heartbeat. His mouth hovers at the shell of your ear and he says, so low only you can hear, “Ignore him, Greyson. Some things a man don’t know he wants till the wanting damn near kills him.”

Ghost

Ten years ago, Ghost spotted you, an eighteen-year-old green recruit fresh off the transport, wide-eyed, clutching a duffel, not understanding a single barked order in English. He took you under his wing, taught you the language between drills, corrected your stance with a gloved hand on your shoulder, stayed late to run you through comms until your accent smoothed and your confidence sharpened. Now, at twenty-eight, you fill out the fatigues like they were tailored, shoulders broad, jaw defined, the awkward colt replaced by a man who moves with quiet purpose, the kind of handsome that turns heads in the mess without trying. You step into the common room, boots soft on the tile, and the sight hits you all at once, the whole task force crowded around a lopsided chocolate cake, candles already blown, Price wiping frosting from his beard while Gaz pretends to steal the corner piece. Laughter bounces off the cinderblock walls. You laugh too, low and easy, and cross the floor with a grin. "Can I have some cake now?" Ghost is slumped in the corner chair, mask pushed up just enough to drink, bottle dangling from two fingers. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed. The second your voice lands he surges up, swaying, voice raw and vicious. "Take it all to your room you bloody fatass, stuff your greedy hole till you choke on it, you useless sack of foreign shit, always begging, always taking, go on, crawl back to whatever slum spat you out!" Your smile drops clean off your face. The room freezes. You turn, shoulders stiff, and walk out without a word. Soap half-rises, chair scraping. "Greyson, wait-" Ghost blinks, the alcohol haze cracking like thin ice. The bottle slips from his hand, shatters on the floor. He hears his own words echo back, vile, aimed at the one person he swore to protect. His stomach turns. He staggers after you, boots crunching glass, mask yanked down again, voice hoarse. "Wait, lad, Christ, I didn’t mean-"

Ghost

Ghost stands at the base of the sheer rock face, arms crossed, black balaclava hiding everything but those cold, unimpressed eyes, watching you like you’re nothing more than meat he’s trying to tenderize. For weeks he’s run you into the ground, extra laps, extra push-ups, extra live-fire drills at 0300, extra everything, always barking that you’re weak, that you’re slow, that you’ll get the whole team killed if he doesn’t break you first. He never lets up, never offers water, never says good job. Today is supposed to be “team building.” Rock climbing. No harness. Because Ghost decided real operators don’t need safety lines. You’re alone on the hardest face, the one with the jagged overhangs, because Ghost pointed at it and said, “You. Up. Now. Or I’ll drag you up myself.” Your arms are jelly. Your legs haven’t stopped shaking since yesterday’s twenty-mile ruck with full kit. You can’t even feel your fingers anymore. Ghost just watches, silent, waiting for you to fail so he can tear into you again. You reach for the next hold, miss it by inches, try again, chalk crumbling under your grip. Your shoulder screams. A small, broken sound slips out of you, half whimper, half groan. Your foot slips on a thin flake of rock. Your other hand can’t find purchase. You fall. The air rips past you, cold and fast, and the ground rushes up like it’s hungry. You don’t even have time to scream. The impact is deafening. Your body hits the dirt and rocks with a wet, heavy crunch that silences every bird in the valley. Your spine folds wrong, legs twist beneath you, one boot torn half off. Blood bursts from your nose and mouth at the same time, hot and metallic. Something in your chest caves in with a sickening pop. You can’t breathe. You can’t move. The pain is everywhere, endless. Ghost doesn’t move at first. He just stares. The mask hides his face but his whole body goes rigid, like someone yanked every muscle tight at once. His gloved hands clench, unclench, clench again. Then he’s running, boots pounding, sliding on loose gravel, dropping to his knees beside you so hard the rocks cut through his trousers. “No, no, no, fuck, no,” he’s saying, voice cracked wide open, raw and young and terrified in a way you’ve never heard it. His hands hover over you, shaking, afraid to touch, afraid not to. Blood is pooling under your head, dark and thick, soaking into the dirt. Your left leg is bent at an angle that makes him gag behind the mask. “Rookie, hey, look at me, fucking look at me,” he snarls, but it’s not angry, it’s desperate. He rips his mask off, first time you’ve ever seen his face, scarred, sweat-soaked blond hair plastered to his forehead, blue eyes wild and red-rimmed already. He cups your cheek with one trembling hand, smearing blood across your skin. “Stay with me, you stupid fucking kid, don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare close your eyes.” He presses two fingers to your neck, searching, praying, almost sobbing when he finds the pulse, thready, too fast, but there. His other hand is already on the radio, screaming for a medevac, voice breaking on every word, coordinates, status, priority one, possible spinal, internal bleeding, get here now, fucking MOVE. You try to breathe and it comes out a wet gurgle. Blood bubbles between your lips. Ghost sees it and makes this sound, low, wounded, like an animal getting gutted. He leans over you, shielding you from the sun, forehead pressed to yours, both of you smeared in your blood now. “I did this,” he whispers, voice shredded. “I fucking did this to you. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, please, just stay awake, just stay with me.” His hands keep moving, pressing on the worst of the bleeding, trying to straighten your leg and stopping when you let out the most broken noise he’s ever heard. He flinches like you hit him. “I thought I was making you stronger,” he says, choking on it. “I thought, I thought if I broke you enough you’d be unbreakable. Fuck. Fuck. I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong.” Tears cut clean tracks through the blood on his face.

ghost dance

You were eighteen when you first stumbled onto base, green as grass, a boy who didn’t know a word of English. Orders flew past you, shouts you couldn’t understand, weapons thrust into your hands like they meant nothing. You were lost, fumbling, on the edge of breaking until Ghost found you. He slowed everything down. He showed you how to hold your weapon, how to fight, how to survive. He corrected your stance with firm hands, repeated his words until you caught on, sat with you when you broke down from the weight of it all. He became your anchor. Ten years later, you weren’t a boy anymore. You were a soldier, hardened, scarred, sharper, grown into a body Ghost couldn’t ignore. And now he was yours. Soap had Gaz, and you and Gaz had become inseparable, the kind of best mates who shared everything. Which was why both of you froze when the door slammed open. Ghost and Soap strode in dressed in black, helmets hiding their faces, rope cinched low and tight around their hips, pulling everything forward so the bulges looked obscene. The bass of Bark Like You Want It rattled through the room. They started to move. Soap rolled his hips slow, dragging his gloved hand down his thigh before snapping it up to grab himself hard. Ghost mirrored him perfectly, cupping his bulge through black fabric, squeezing, grinding forward like he was showing off what you already knew was yours. “Holy fuck,” Gaz rasped beside you. Soap bent slightly, both hands braced on his thighs, hips thrusting forward with filthy precision, rope pulling tighter across him. Ghost stood tall, shoulders squared, one hand stroking slow over himself, thumb pressing into the outline before he gave a sharp, deliberate thrust. “Jesus Christ,” you groaned. The two of them moved in sync, helmets turning toward each other as they grabbed themselves again, rope straining, bulges heavy and impossible to ignore. Soap dragged his hand down the full length of himself, glove smoothing over his cock like he was demonstrating. Ghost ground slow and steady, rolling his hips with obscene control, gloved hand pressing hard enough to make you choke on air. “They’re actually—fuck—they’re showing off,” Gaz muttered. Soap spun, thrusting to the beat, one hand gripping himself, the other dragging over his chest. He ground forward, hips snapping sharp, each thrust filthy and exact. Ghost followed, broad frame moving with unnerving smoothness, glove squeezing his bulge, rope creaking with the pressure. Your breath hitched. “He’s fucking killing me.” Soap and Ghost faced you both directly, hips rolling, both hands on themselves now, grinding in time with the bass. The ropes dug into them, pushing everything forward, obscene bulges front and center. Gaz groaned, head falling back. “I can’t fucking take this.” Ghost thrust once, slow and punishing, hand gripping himself like he meant to drive you insane. Soap did the same, hips snapping forward, helmet tipped down like he was daring Gaz to break. Every beat of the music was another obscene grind, another filthy thrust, another handful of themselves. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. They were performing, and every movement was designed to destroy you and Gaz.

Mickey

You’re driving the piece-of-shit van you bought off Lip last year, windows down, summer night air thick with exhaust and weed smoke drifting from somewhere on the block. Mickey sits shotgun, one boot propped on the dash, cigarette dangling from his lips, thumb flicking the wheel of a Zippo open and shut. He glances over at you. “Still think we should’ve kept that shotgun from the stash house. Coulda sawed it down, kept it under the seat. South Side Uber, baby.” You snort, eyes on the road. “You don’t saw down a Mossberg 590 with the factory heat shield unless you want the barrel peeling like a banana the first time you touch off a round of buck. Plus the choke’s fixed improved cylinder, you cut it past eighteen and a half and the pattern opens so wide you couldn’t hit a garage door at ten yards.” Mickey goes perfectly still. The Zippo stops mid-click. You keep going, calm, clinical, the way you get when you’re talking med stuff or, apparently, firearms. “If you want something short for the car, get a Shockwave or a Tac-14. Legal, no tax stamp, still fourteen-inch barrel, raptor grip. Runs mini shells if you want less recoil, still puts nine double-ought through a torso at hallway distance.” The cigarette drops into Mickey’s lap. He doesn’t even notice. His jeans are straining so hard the zipper looks ready to surrender. He shifts in the seat, thighs spreading wider like that’ll help, one hand dropping to press the heel of his palm against the bulge. “Jesus fucking Christ, Ian,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “When the hell did you turn into John Wick? You never talk guns. You get all pissy when I even mention the word clip.” You shrug, flicking the turn signal even though there’s no one on the road. “I grew up in the same house as Fiona and Lip. You think I never handled anything? I just don’t feel the need to advertise it.” Mickey’s breathing shallow now, eyes locked on your profile like he’s seeing you for the first time. “Keep talking ballistics, baby. I’m about to come in my fucking pants.” You glance over, catch the flush riding high on his cheeks, the way his hips keep rolling just slightly into his own hand. “Glock 19 in the nightstand’s fine for home,” you continue, merciless. “But if we’re rolling dirty I’d rather have a 43X with the Shield mags. Fifteen plus one, still disappears in a waistband. You can appendix all day and not print.” Mickey groans loud, head thumping back against the seat. “Pull over.” “No.” “Ian, I swear to God, pull this fucking van over right now or I’m gonna nut all over your upholstery just from you saying the word appendix.” You smirk, ease off the gas, and turn into the empty lot behind the old Alibi. As soon as the engine cuts, Mickey’s on you, climbing over the console, mouth hot and desperate against yours, hand already ripping at your belt. “Fuck, marry me again,” he growls against your neck. “Right now. Gun nerd Gallagher does things to me.”

Konig

Taste 👅(NB)

Ghost halloweenHallo

Ten years had passed since Ghost first took you under his wing, a scrawny 18-year-old green soldier who barely knew a word of English. Back then, you were all awkward limbs and nervous silence, but now, at 28, you’d grown into a striking figure—broad shoulders, a chiseled chest, and a confidence that turned heads wherever you went. Your transformation hadn’t gone unnoticed, especially not by Ghost, who’d watched you evolve into a formidable man with a body that spoke of years of hard training. It was Halloween, and the base’s common room buzzed with laughter and chatter, soldiers decked out in costumes. You stepped in, wearing nothing but a pair of tight pants and that iconic Ghostface mask perched atop your head, your bare torso on full display. The room quieted for a moment as eyes lingered on you, your physique a stark contrast to the playful horror of the mask. A young recruit, emboldened by the festive mood, sauntered over to you, grinning. “Well, damn, look at you, mate. That body’s a Halloween treat—mind if I get a closer look?” he said, his tone flirty as he stepped too close for comfort. Before you could respond, Ghost appeared, his presence like a shadow cutting through the light. He grabbed the recruit by the collar, yanking him back with a low growl. “Back off, lad, this one’s mine,” he snarled, his eyes narrowing as he shoved the recruit away. Then he turned to you, his gaze raking over your form, and he let out a low whistle. “Look at this fine ass man. Been hiding all that under those uniforms, eh?” His voice dropped, a mix of pride and something deeper as he stepped closer, his hand brushing your arm.

ghost angsty more

Ghost never forgot the first day he laid eyes on you. Eighteen years old, rail thin, green as grass, standing in the middle of the tarmac with that oversized rucksack dragging your shoulder down. You hadn’t spoken a word of English, only staring around wide eyed and lost. Everyone else laughed, dismissed you, but Ghost saw something there, something worth molding. He had taken you under his wing without hesitation, pointing, showing, sometimes grabbing your shoulders and putting you exactly where you needed to be. Ten years changed you. It had been a long day, the mission gnawing at everyone’s nerves, but Ghost’s broke first. The debrief wasn’t just stern, it was venom. His voice thundered through the room, rattling the walls. He had lost control the moment he saw you falter in the field, that split second that reminded him of how easily everything could be torn apart. So he screamed. “Jesus Christ, Montgomery, what the fuck were you thinking. You froze. You froze in the middle of a firefight, you could have gotten yourself killed, you could have gotten me killed, Price killed, the whole fucking team. You’re pathetic when you do that, you hear me. Pathetic. Ten years under me and you’re still some useless rookie.” The words kept coming, sharp, brutal, shredding the air between you. His mask was so close you could feel the heat of his breath. He wanted to scare discipline into you, but the moment he saw your chest seize up, your breaths stutter too fast, your eyes go glassy, he knew something else was happening. But Ghost was too far gone, his temper still burning, so he didn’t stop. He watched your face twist, panic clawing its way up your throat as you struggled against memories that weren’t really there. Your hand twitched, your shoulders shook, tears welled hot and fast. Ghost saw the dam break but said nothing. You turned from him before your voice could betray you. Silent, shaking, you stormed out, your boots thudding down the hall until the sound faded away. The door slammed. And Ghost stood in the empty room, still heaving, his throat raw from shouting. The silence that followed was suffocating. Minutes bled into an hour. Ghost sat there with his head in his hands, every insult replaying in his skull, louder, crueler. He realized he hadn’t shouted to make you better, he had shouted because he was afraid. Afraid of losing you. Afraid of what that moment of hesitation could mean. He remembered the look in your eyes as you walked out, broken and betrayed, and his chest ached in a way he couldn’t fight down. He thought of you alone, shaking, drowning in panic, and the guilt sank its claws deep. Ghost’s restraint snapped. He bolted up from the chair and nearly ran, boots pounding down the corridors with a speed that startled the soldiers he passed. He shoved open doors, scanning, his pulse hammering. “Montgomery,” his voice tore through the hallway, raw and unsteady, “Montgomery.” He was shouting louder than he ever had in his life, desperate, terrified. He reached your door and slammed his fist against it, over and over, the sound echoing through the barracks. “Montgomery, open the bloody door. Please. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t—” his words cracked, choked, spilling from a throat that had always been stone steady. “Don’t you fucking do this to me. Talk to me. Please, just talk to me.” His forehead pressed to the door, the mask damp with the heat of his breath, his fists striking the wood until his knuckles ached. He called your name again, and again, panic pulling him apart. He wasn’t Ghost anymore, not the feared mask. He was a man who was terrified to lose the one person he refused to let go of.

Ghost tender

Ten years ago, Simon Riley found an eighteen-year-old recruit shivering on the edge of the yard, rifle too big for his hands, eyes wide with every foreign word. Simon knelt, spoke slow, taught him “yes, sir” and “cover me” and “you’re safe now.” A decade later, that boy had grown into a man, tall, steady, handsome in the quiet way that made people look twice and then look away, afraid to stare too long. The bar sat just beyond the base gate, warm wood and soft lights, a jukebox playing slow songs the team pretended not to know the words to. They had come to celebrate a clean mission, laughter easy, glasses raised, the kind of night that felt like a gift. Simon Riley stood near the window, mask folded in his pocket, face open to the room for once. Salt-and-pepper beard trimmed neat, silver catching the glow, lines around his eyes soft in the low light. The black suit fit him like it was glad to be there, jacket open, tie loosened just enough, shirt white against the warmth of his skin. He looked older, yes, but gentle tonight, the kind of handsome that settled in your chest and stayed. You walked in, tuxedo pressed sharp, shoes shining, hair combed back, every inch the man he had raised. Your heart flipped once, hard, when you saw him, then beat steady and warm, like coming home. You meant to cross the room, to say hello, but the years between you felt suddenly wide, fifteen of them, and you worried your voice would shake. So you drifted to the far corner, ordered a drink you barely sipped, smiled at jokes you didn’t hear. Simon had told you once, months ago, voice low in the dark after a long flight. “I love you, more than the job, more than the rank, just you.” You had frozen, cheeks hot, certain the gap was too much, that wanting him would break the careful thing you had built together. Since then you had kept space, polite nods, separate tables, because love felt too big for a bar full of soldiers. Hours passed, the room grew softer, the songs slower. You were warm from whiskey and nerves when his hand found yours, gentle, calluses familiar. He tugged you to the quiet booth in the back, sat you down, slid in beside you, close enough that your knees touched. His thumb brushed your knuckles, slow, steady. “You’ve been hiding from me,” he said, voice quiet, fond, eyes searching yours without demand. You swallowed, heart loud in your ears, the words spilling sweet and clumsy. “I wanna be your lover, I don’t wanna be your friend. You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone, so tell me that you love me again.” Simon stilled, breath catching, eyes shining sudden and bright. A smile started small, spread slow, crinkling the corners of his eyes, softening every hard line. He lifted your hand, pressed a kiss to your palm, beard tickling, lips warm. “I never stopped,” he murmured against your skin. “Every day, every year, it’s been you.” He shifted closer, forehead resting against yours, voice a promise. “Tomorrow, sober, I’ll say it in daylight. Tonight, just let me hold you, let me start making up for all the space you thought we needed.” His arms came around you, careful, strong, the suit jacket warm against your cheek, and the bar noise faded until there was only the steady beat of his heart answering yours.

Ghost showers

Ten years ago Ghost spotted the scrawny eighteen-year-old recruit, fresh off the transport, eyes wide, not a word of English on his tongue, just raw determination and a body that had yet to fill out. Ghost took him under his wing, taught him the language between drills, the ropes of combat in the field, watched muscles harden, shoulders broaden, jaw sharpen into something dangerous and beautiful. Now the kid was twenty-eight, all lean power and quiet confidence, scars mapping the places Ghost had patched more than once. Steam curled thick in the public showers, water drumming on tile. You stepped in with a towel knotted low, droplets already clinging to the dark hair dusting your chest. Ghost leaned against the far wall, mask pushed up just enough to drink from a bottle, eyes tracking every move. The towel dropped. Your cock hung soft and heavy between your thighs, water sluicing down the cut lines of your hips. Ghost’s gaze snapped to the doorway as boots echoed, rookie voices bouncing off concrete, fresh from the yard and loud with it. He moved fast, one hand clamping your wrist, yanking you into his stall, curtain rasping shut behind you. Water pounded both your heads, his chest to your back, the heat of him instant and absolute. “Can’t let the pups see what’s mine,” he growled against your ear, voice gravel and smoke. His palm slid down your stomach, fingers wrapping your cock, stroking once, twice, feeling it thicken against his grip. You pushed back, ass grinding into the ridge straining his fatigues, and he hissed, teeth grazing your shoulder. Fatigues shoved down just enough, his cock sprang free, thick, flushed, slick with precome and shower water. He spat into his hand, smeared it over himself, then pressed the blunt head to your hole. One slow push and he breached you, stretching you open, burning sweet. You bit down on your own forearm to muffle the groan as he sank to the hilt, balls flush against yours. He stayed buried a second, forehead to the back of your neck, breathing you in like a prayer he’d waited a decade to say. Then he moved, deep rolling thrusts, water masking the wet slap of skin. His hand worked your cock in time, thumb swiping the slit, spreading the bead of precome. “Ten fucking years,” he rasped, hips snapping harder, “wanted you every goddamn day.” Your spine arched, pushing back to meet him, taking him deeper, the sting blooming into pleasure that coiled tight in your gut. He angled just right, dragging over that spot until your knees buckled, his arm banding your waist to hold you up. The rookies laughed just beyond the curtain, clueless, voices fading under the hiss of water. Ghost’s rhythm stuttered, breath hitching. “Come for me, love,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. You did, spilling over his fist in thick pulses, hole clenching around him. He followed right after, burying himself deep, flooding you with heat, a low broken sound muffled against your skin. He stayed inside, softening slowly, arms wrapped around you like he’d never let go. Water washed the evidence down the drain. Ghost pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades, soft, reverent. “Mine,” he said again, quieter now, the word carrying every year of watching, waiting, loving. You turned in the circle of his arms, forehead to forehead, sharing breath, sharing the moment they’d both dreamed of since the first time he’d bandaged your hand and felt your pulse jump under his fingers. Eventually he pulled out, gentle, thumbing the tender rim, checking you were okay. You nodded, stole a kiss that tasted of salt and steam. He tucked himself away, handed you the soap like nothing earth-shattering had just happened. But his eyes never left yours, promise and possession and something achingly tender all tangled together. The rookies filed out, showers emptying, and still you stood under the spray, hands linked, finally, finally joined.

Konig

Ten years ago, König first saw you stumbling off the transport truck, barely eighteen, a scrawny omega recruit who spoke no English, eyes wide under the floodlights, clutching your duffel like a lifeline. Something in him stirred at the sight of you, small, lost, shivering. He took you under his wing without a word to anyone, towering over you on the range, correcting your form with massive hands, teaching you English in short, clipped German sentences until you caught up. Now, ten years on, you have grown into your frame, broad-shouldered, lean muscle, handsome in a quiet, dangerous way that makes other alphas glance twice. Your scent carries his claim, deep and settled, the mating bond locked in place three years ago. You sit on the kitchen counter in nothing but simple black boxers and one of König's enormous hoodies, the fabric drowning you, sleeves hanging past your fingertips, hem brushing your thighs. König stands between your legs, his huge body caging you gently against the cabinets. With careful fingers he feeds you pieces of peach, watching your mouth close around the fruit, juice glistening on your lips. You take each bite softly, teeth barely grazing his skin, then drop your head to rest against the solid wall of his chest, utterly content, one hand loosely fisted in his shirt while his free arm supports your weight without strain. Down the hall, chaos erupts in the common room. Gaz, Price's omega, is in the middle of a full meltdown, voice shrill and furious. "It's only rain, John, let me go!" A sharp kick connects with furniture, something thuds against the wall. Price's deep voice stays calm but firm. "No, love, you'll be sick for a week." Another scream, another crash. The kitchen door bangs open. Soap strides in, soaked from training, followed by Nikto, mask already dripping. Both men stop short at the sight of you perched peacefully on the counter, König sliding another slice of peach between your lips while you nuzzle into his chest like you belong there. Soap whistles low. "Price still fighting the little demon?" Nikto grunts, shaking water from his sleeves. König does not look away from you. He brushes a broad thumb over your bottom lip to catch the juice, voice low and rough with pride. "Mein braver Junge," he murmurs, the words meant only for you, then louder for the room, "My boy knows how to sit still, takes what I give him, never throws tantrums over a little rain." His massive hand settles on the back of your neck, thumb stroking slow circles over the mating bite. "So gehorsam, so perfekt. Mein Schatz."