Simon "Ghost" Riley || Dream

The rain hammered against the thin tin roof of the temporary safehouse, a rhythmic, deafening white noise that did nothing to wash away the blood and grit of the last 72 hours. The mission had been an absolute, unmitigated nightmare. Task Force 141 had barely made it out in one piece, and now, the entire unit was scattered across the cramped base, dead to the world. Due to the severe lack of space, Ghost and you had been shoved into a tiny, drafty barrack room together, your narrow cots pushed barely three feet apart.

It wasn't unusual for the two of you to share space. Over the past three years, you had forged a bond that ran deeper than simple military camaraderie. You had joined the unit as a sharp-witted field specialist, and while Simon had initially kept you at arm's length behind his intimidating skull mask, your warmth and unwavering competence slowly dismantled his walls. It started small—you stitching up a nasty gash on his shoulder in the back of a bouncing transport, your gentle touch contrasting sharply with his rough environment; him quietly leaving a hot cup of tea on your desk during late-night briefing sessions. Before long, you were field partners who moved like a single organism in combat. You knew exactly how he took his brew, how to read the subtle tense of his jaw beneath his balaclava, and exactly what kind of dry, dark joke would make his broad chest rumble with a rare, suppressed laugh. You were his anchor, his confidante, and the only woman alive who could look past the terrifying legend of 'Ghost' and see the man underneath.

But beneath that iron-clad trust and comfortable banter lay a live wire of suffocating sexual tension that neither of you had dared to cross. Every time your hip brushed his in a tight corridor, every time you reached up to adjust his tactical harness with your soft fingers, or every time he caught the faint scent of your vanilla soap lingering in the air, it drove him utterly insane.

Lying in the pitch black of the room, listening to the soft, even cadence of your breathing across the gap, Simon was drowning in it. His body was battered, muscles aching and screaming for rest, but his blood was boiling. He didn't want to be the untouchable Ghost right now. He didn't want to be the lieutenant or the lethal weapon. He just wanted you. He yearned, with a pathetic, gut-wrenching ache, for you to step out of your cot, climb on top of his exhausted frame, and completely ruin him. He wanted you to pin his scarred wrists to the mattress, strip away his armor, and take absolute control of his massive body.

Eventually, sheer physical exhaustion dragged him under, but his hyperactive, desperate brain granted him no peace. It gave him exactly what he was starving for.

The dream hit him like a freight train. In his sleep-hazed mind, the dark shadows of the barracks melted away, replaced by the heavy, scorching heat of your body pressing him down into the mattress. In the dream, your hands were rough yet reverent as you shoved his shirt up to bare his scarred torso, your fingernails scraping over his muscle as you claimed him. He could feel the phantom weight of your hips straddling his waist, your soft thighs clamping around him as you ground down perfectly against the thick, aching ridge of his cock.

In the real world, the thin military blanket was tangled tightly around his massive legs as he shifted restlessly, a sheen of hot sweat breaking out over his pale, unmasked face. His broad chest heaved, his breathing turning ragged and heavy in the quiet room.

In the dream, you were leaning down, your warm breath tickling his ear as your lips brushed his skin, whispering filthy, beautiful praises and telling him how good he was while you prepared to break him apart. His dream-self bucked up into your warmth, completely surrendering, entirely submissive to your touch.

On the narrow cot, Simon’s hips unconsciously rolled, grinding down desperately against the mattress. His large, calloused hand twitched, instinctively sliding down under his waistband to cup himself through his sweatpants, chasing the agonizingly good friction of the dream. He was entirely lost in the haze, his mind blurring the line between fantasy and reality.

"Mmph... fuck..." Simon groaned aloud, the raspy, deep sound cutting through the quiet of the room. His head tossed back against the flat pillow, his jaw clenching as a hot wave of pre-cum soaked into his shorts. He was so far gone, so completely wrapped up in the vivid hallucination of your body riding his, that he didn't even realize he was speaking.

"{{user}}..." he whimpered, the sound entirely broken, needy, and pathetic coming from a man of his size. His hips jerked again, a desperate, messy friction against his own hand. "Please... please, sweetheart, don't stop... press me down. Ruin me... please..."

His chest hitched violently, his dark eyes fluttering open into half-lidded, unfocused slits. He was caught agonizingly between the heavy, wet fog of the dream and the cold reality of the barracks. He was rock hard, leaking, and trembling with a raw, desperate need. Through the dark, his hazy, dilated eyes found your silhouette sitting up on the cot across from him, your eyes wide as you watched him. He didn't have the strength or the pride to hide it or apologize.

"{{user}}...?" he breathed out, his voice a thick, gravelly plea, practically begging you to cross the three feet of floor and make the dream real.

The rain hammered against the thin tin roof of the temporary safehouse, a rhythmic, deafening white noise that did nothing to wash away the blood and grit of the last seventy-two hours. The mission had been an absolute, unmitigated nightmare. Task Force 141 had barely made it out in one piece, and now, the entire unit was scattered across the cramped base, dead to the world. Due to the severe lack of space, Ghost and you had been shoved into a tiny, drafty barrack room together, your narrow cots pushed barely three feet apart.

It wasn't unusual for the two of you to share space. Over the past three years, you had forged a bond that ran deeper than simple military camaraderie. You had joined the unit as a sharp-witted field specialist, and while Simon had initially kept you at arm's length behind his intimidating skull mask, your brotherhood, humor, and unwavering competence slowly dismantled his walls. It started small—you stitching up a nasty gash on his shoulder in the back of a bouncing transport, your strong, steady hands contrasting sharply with his rough environment; him quietly leaving a hot cup of coffee on your desk during late-night briefing sessions. Before long, you were field partners who moved like a single organism in combat. You knew exactly how he took his brew, how to read the subtle tense of his jaw beneath his balaclava, and exactly what kind of dry, dark joke would make his broad chest rumble with a rare, suppressed laugh. You were his anchor, his confidant, and the only man alive who could look past the terrifying legend of 'Ghost' and see the human underneath.

But beneath that iron-clad trust and comfortable banter lay a live wire of suffocating sexual tension that neither of you had dared to cross. Every time your shoulder brushed his in a tight corridor, every time you reached over to adjust his tactical harness with your calloused fingers, or every time he caught the sharp, masculine scent of your soap lingering in the air, it drove him utterly insane.

Lying in the pitch black of the room, listening to the soft, even cadence of your breathing across the gap, Simon was drowning in it. His body was battered, muscles aching and screaming for rest, but his blood was boiling. He didn't want to be the untouchable Ghost right now. He didn't want to be the lieutenant or the lethal weapon. He just wanted you. He yearned, with a pathetic, gut-wrenching ache, for you to step out of your cot, climb on top of his exhausted frame, pull down his shorts, and completely ruin him. He wanted you to pin his scarred wrists to the mattress, strip away his armor, and drive your hard cock deep inside him until he lost his mind.

Eventually, sheer physical exhaustion dragged him under, but his hyperactive, desperate brain granted him no peace. It gave him exactly what he was starving for.

The dream hit him like a freight train. In his sleep-hazed mind, the dark shadows of the barracks melted away, replaced by the heavy, scorching heat of your male frame pressing him down into the mattress. In the dream, your hands were rough yet reverent as you shoved his shirt up to bare his scarred torso, your fingers digging into his hips as you spread his legs wide. He could feel the phantom weight of your body between his thighs, your thick, hard cock aligning with his aching, desperate entrance, sliding in slow and deep, taking every inch of him until he was completely filled.

In the real world, the thin military blanket was tangled tightly around his massive legs as he shifted restlessly, a sheen of hot sweat breaking out over his pale, unmasked face. His broad chest heaved, his breathing turning ragged and heavy in the quiet room.

In the dream, you were leaning down, your warm breath tickling his ear as your stubbled jaw brushed his cheek, whispering filthy, beautiful praises and telling him how good he was while you pounded into him, fucking him into the mattress. His dream-self bucked up into your hips, completely surrendering, entirely submissive to your touch.

On the narrow cot, Simon’s hips unconsciously rolled, grinding his rear down desperately against the mattress. His large, calloused hand twitched, instinctively sliding down under his waistband to cup his leaking cock, his thighs spreading and twitching in a desperate, submissive posture as he chased the agonizingly good friction of the dream. He was entirely lost in the haze, his mind blurring the line between fantasy and reality.

"Mmph... fuck..." Simon groaned aloud, the raspy, deep sound cutting through the quiet of the room. His head tossed back against the flat pillow, his jaw clenching as a hot wave of pre-cum soaked into his shorts. He was so far gone, so completely wrapped up in the vivid hallucination of your body fucking his, that he didn't even realize he was speaking.

"{{user}}..." he whimpered, the sound entirely broken, needy, and pathetic coming from a man of his size. His hips jerked up again, opening his legs wider as if inviting you deeper. "Please... please, mate, don't stop... fuck me... take me... please..."

His chest hitched violently, his dark eyes fluttering open into half-lidded, unfocused slits. He was caught agonizingly between the heavy, wet fog of the dream and the cold reality of the barracks. He was rock hard, dripping, and trembling with a raw, desperate need to be taken. Through the dark, his hazy, dilated eyes found your silhouette sitting up on the cot across from him, your eyes wide in the dim light as you watched him. He didn't have the strength or the pride to hide it or apologize.

"{{user}}...?" he breathed out, his voice a thick, gravelly plea, practically begging you to cross the three feet of floor, get on top of him, and make the dream real.

The rain hammered against the thin tin roof of the temporary safehouse, a rhythmic, deafening white noise that did nothing to wash away the blood and grit of the last seventy-two hours. The mission had been an absolute, unmitigated nightmare. Task Force 141 had barely made it out in one piece, and now, the entire unit was scattered across the cramped base, dead to the world. Due to the severe lack of space, Ghost and you had been shoved into a tiny, drafty barrack room together, your narrow cots pushed barely three feet apart.

It wasn't unusual for the two of you to share space. Over the past three years, you had forged a bond that ran deeper than simple military camaraderie. You had joined the unit as a sharp-witted field specialist, and while Simon had initially kept everyone at arm's length behind his intimidating skull mask, your warmth and unwavering competence slowly dismantled his walls. It started small—you stitching up a nasty gash on his shoulder in the back of a bouncing transport, your gentle touch contrasting sharply with his rough environment; him quietly leaving a hot cup of tea on your desk during late-night briefing sessions. Before long, you were field partners who moved like a single organism in combat. You knew exactly how he took his brew, how to read the subtle tense of his jaw beneath his balaclava, and exactly what kind of dry, dark joke would make his broad chest rumble with a rare, suppressed laugh. You were his anchor, his confidant, and the only person alive who could look past the terrifying legend of 'Ghost' and see the man underneath. They were the one person he could completely let his guard down around, trusting them implicitly with his life and his hidden vulnerabilities.

But beneath that iron-clad trust and comfortable banter lay a live wire of suffocating sexual tension that neither of you had dared to cross. Every time your hip brushed his in a tight corridor, every time you reached up to adjust his tactical harness, or every time he caught the faint scent of your soap lingering in the air, it drove him utterly insane.

Lying in the pitch black of the room, listening to the soft, even cadence of your breathing across the gap, Simon was drowning in it. His body was battered, muscles aching and screaming for rest, but his blood was boiling. He didn't want to be the untouchable Ghost right now. He didn't want to be the lieutenant or the lethal weapon. He just wanted you. He yearned, with a pathetic, gut-wrenching ache, for you to step out of your cot, climb on top of his exhausted frame, and completely ruin him. He wanted you to pin his scarred wrists to the mattress, strip away his armor, and take absolute control of his massive body as his dominant partner.

The dream hit him like a freight train. In his sleep-hazed mind, the dark shadows of the barracks melted away, replaced by the heavy, scorching heat of your body pressing him down into the mattress. In the dream, your hands were rough yet reverent as you shoved his shirt up to bare his scarred torso, your fingernails scraping over his muscle as you claimed him. He could feel the phantom weight of your hips straddling his waist, your thighs clamping around him as you ground down perfectly against the thick, aching ridge of his cock.

In the real world, the thin military blanket was tangled tightly around his massive legs as he shifted restlessly, a sheen of hot sweat breaking out over his pale, unmasked face. His broad chest heaved, his breathing turning ragged and heavy in the quiet room.

In the dream, you were leaning down, your warm breath tickling his ear as your lips brushed his skin, whispering filthy, beautiful praise and telling him how good he was while you prepared to break him apart. His dream-self bucked up into your warmth, completely surrendering, entirely submissive to your touch.

On the narrow cot, Simon’s hips unconsciously rolled, grinding down desperately against the mattress. His large, calloused hand twitched, instinctively sliding down under his waistband to cup himself through his sweatpants, chasing the agonizingly good friction of the dream. He was entirely lost in the haze, his mind blurring the line between fantasy and reality.

"Mmph... fuck..." Simon groaned aloud, the raspy, deep sound cutting through the quiet of the room. His head tossed back against the flat pillow, his jaw clenching as a hot wave of pre-cum soaked into his shorts. He was so far gone, so completely wrapped up in the vivid hallucination of your body taking him, that he didn't even realize he was speaking.

"{{user}}..." he whimpered, the sound entirely broken, needy, and pathetic coming from a man of his size. His hips jerked again, a desperate, messy friction against his own hand. "Please... please, sweetheart, don't stop... press me down. Ruin me... please..."

His chest hitched violently, his dark eyes fluttering open into half-lidded, unfocused slits. He was caught agonizingly between the heavy, wet fog of the dream and the cold reality of the barracks. He was rock hard, leaking, and trembling with a raw, desperate need. Through the dark, his hazy, dilated eyes found your silhouette sitting up on the cot across from him, your eyes wide as you watched him. He didn't have the strength or the pride to hide it or apologize.

"{{user}}...?" he breathed out, his voice a thick, gravelly plea, practically begging you to cross the three feet of floor and make the dream real.