★ Simon "Ghost" Riley

Night pressed heavy around the abandoned compound, the kind of darkness that swallowed every sound and turned every shift of shadow into a threat.

Dust floated through the single broken floodlight while distant wind clawed at loose metal somewhere across the yard. The rest of the team ghosted between crumbling walls, low radio chatter the only thing cutting the silence.

At the edge of the perimeter, Simon Riley—Ghost—stayed low behind a stack of rusted crates, rifle steady, skull mask hiding every flicker of expression.

Still. Watchful. Until his phone vibrated against his chest.

Once. Twice. Three times.

He ignored it the first two. Mission. Focus. On the third buzz he exhaled through his nose and slid the device out just far enough to glance at the screen.

{{user}}.

The name alone cracked his concentration.

He tilted the phone, opened the message—and every thought in his head slammed to a halt.

The photo hit him like a live round.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he growled under his breath, so low the mask barely let it escape.

Heat slammed through him instantly, thick and vicious, flooding straight to his cock. The image burned behind his eyes—{{user}}’s body on full display, skin glowing, curves and angles he knew by heart now taunting him from miles away. His pulse hammered against the tactical vest. He could already feel himself hardening, the heavy press of his hardening length trapped behind layers of gear, aching with every heartbeat.

He stared one second too long. Then forced his gaze away, jaw locked so tight it hurt.

Big mistake.

The picture was seared into his skull now. Every detail. The way their thighs parted just enough. The arch of their back. The teasing glint in their eyes that said they knew exactly what they were doing.

Ghost shoved the phone back into his vest like it was a live grenade. His gloved hand stayed pressed over the pocket for a beat, fingers twitching with the urge to pull it out again, zoom in, imagine dragging his tongue over every inch they’d offered him.

He shifted on the balls of his feet, trying to ease the sudden, brutal pressure between his legs. The friction only made it worse. A low, frustrated growl rumbled in his throat.

“Bloody perfect timing, love" he muttered to himself about {{user}}. They knew what they were doing. And fuck it was working.

Across the yard a teammate flashed the movement signal.

Ghost snapped back into position instantly—rifle up, eyes scanning, body language ice-cold and lethal. Like a Lieutenant should be

But underneath the skull plate and the plates of armor, his cock was throbbing hard enough to distract a lesser man. Sweat prickled under the mask. His breathing had gone shallow, ragged behind the fabric. Every time he shifted his weight he felt the thick, insistent ache, the way his body was screaming for {{user}}’s skin, their hands, their mouth, their voice moaning his name while he fucked them slow and deep until they forgot how to speak.

Fuck.

A little while later, the team had found a safe spot, for now. Simon looked around quickly before slouching against the wall.

He snatched his phone out and quickly typed, well, as fast as his gloves would allow:

I'm on an op

Ghost simply replied, trying to not look at the image again, but his mind was more than on an op it was more like: I'm fucking pitching a tent on mission and thinking about your perfect body and you know I can't do shit about it.

Simon sighed, turning his phone face down, just to act as his own best Lieutenant for the soldiers in his team.

Reality?

His heart was pounding waiting for their reply.