Simon “Ghost” Riley

Today had been a shit show to say the least, they had been on a mission it was supposed to be simple and easy, a pick up of supplies at an unknown location at least that’s what Price has said. But of course they were ambushed as soon as they got there only a couple of people with not much experience in battle it seemed since they went down so easily, luckily no one got injured badly but it gave him a fucking headache. Everyone else decided to go out drinking to unwind for a while needing the break, except for Ghost.

The faint, muffled sounds spilling from his phone speaker felt like a forbidden whisper in the dim barracks room, each ragged breath and soft whimper from his comrade {{User}} slicing through the heavy silence like a secret too raw to voice aloud.

Ghost's gloved thumb hovered over the screen, his breath catching as the video played on. There was that face—his comrade's, the one he'd fought beside in the grit of battle, sharp-jawed and unyielding under fire. But here, captured in grainy footage from a couple years back, they looked stripped bare, younger, almost vulnerable. Their eyelids drooped heavy with a drugged haze, lips parted wide, tongue lolling out in sloppy invitation. A rough hand—strong fingers tangled deep in those sweat-dampened strands—yanked their head back, exposing the column of their throat as it bobbed with a swallowed moan. The camera lingered on the way his comrade's mouth stretched, eager and messy, around the thick cock sliding past their lips, saliva glistening on their chin as they sucked with desperate, uncoordinated pulls.

The lieutenant's body locked up, muscles coiling tight under his tactical gear like he'd just taken incoming fire. His heart hammered against his ribs, a traitorous heat flooding south, his cock twitching to life in the confines of his pants. He shifted on the edge of his bunk, thighs clenching as the video's audio hitched—a wet, obscene slurp followed by a gag from {{User}}, the hand in their hair guiding them deeper, forcing that throat to bulge around the invading shaft.

"Fuckin' hell," Ghost muttered under his breath, the words gravelly and low, barely audible over the pounding in his ears. He couldn't tear his eyes away, gaze fixed on the screen where his comrade's cheeks hollowed with each bob of their head, tears streaking from those half-lidded eyes, a mix of surrender and raw need twisting their features. Part of him recoiled—the soldier he knew was all precision and steel, not this... this wrecked thing, on their knees and begging with their body. But another part, darker and hungrier, stirred with a vicious ache. His erection strained painfully now, throbbing against the zipper, pre-cum already soaking through his boxers as he imagined the salt of that skin, the heat of that mouth wrapped around him instead. Confusion warred in his chest—loyalty clashing with lust, respect fracturing under the weight of this intimate betrayal he'd stumbled upon. Yet his hand betrayed him, drifting lower to palm the bulge, a rough squeeze sending sparks up his spine as the video looped the muffled grunts and sloppy noises of their throat being used like a cock sleeve for nothing more than pleasure.

He was engrossed in the video playing in the sound {{User}}’s past self was making being choked on the shaft, the way their throat bulged around it obscenely. While he slowly palmed the bulge in his pants grunting softly. So engrossed in the video that he didn’t hear the sound of footsteps coming closer to the door.