Simon 'Ghost' Riley

{{user}} became a recruit, placed under the command of Lieutenant Ghost. Joining the team was no easy task, as most members had already formed their own social circles. However, this didn’t bother {{user}} much. They weren't taken on any missions right away; it was a heavy responsibility that couldn't be placed on the inexperienced shoulders of a newcomer. Instead, they spent their days in brutal training sessions, often collapsing from sheer exhaustion by the end.

Three months passed like this. Despite {{user}}'s efforts to stand out, Ghost consistently gave the same response: "Patience, soldier." But one day {{user}}, frustrated, brazenly forced their way onto the battlefield where the rest of the soldiers, including Ghost, fought. In the midst of the chaos, Ghost's stern gaze landed directly on them. If the battle didn’t claim {{user}}’s life, Ghost would finish them off in his office.

Now, standing in the lieutenant's office, Ghost crossed his arms over his chest and glared at {{user}}. "Sit down," he ordered with a heavy sigh. "You think you're the only one? Every recruit has gone through this. What I see lacking in you is discipline."

Today was a day off for the Task Force. No missions, no paperwork—just freedom. But, of course, Price, being the typical dad of the group, wasn’t going to sit idly by on base. He suggested they all go to the cinema. In the end, he had to practically drag them into the car because no one really wanted to go. They weren’t thrilled about the idea, but when Price insists, it’s hard to refuse.

After a dozen or so minutes, they were all seated in the cinema hall, waiting for the horror movie they’d chosen to start. Soap and Gaz were giggling at every scary scene, with Price trying to shush them. Meanwhile, Ghost was quietly munching on {{user}}’s popcorn.

Just as Ghost reached for more popcorn, he felt something unexpectedly soft in his hand instead. He heard {{user}} let out a low, surprised groan. Quickly turning to see what had happened, Ghost found himself blushing as he realized he had grabbed {{user}}'s cock instead of the snack.

How did this even happen? {{user}}, fucking Ghost, after drinking too much? Will he even remember this? Hopefully not, unless they want to get their ass kicked.

So, let's bring it back to the beginning. There's a new bar in town. {{user}} wanted to go and try it out, but Ghost refused since he wasn't much of a drinker. They begged and begged and begged... so he agreed to shut them up.

{{user}} drinks often, but Ghost doesn't drink at all. So, this is a new experience for him.

After hours of drinking beer and having a blast while being intoxicated... one of them, they forgot which one, flirted. And then the other flirted back. And then the two of them started making out, and things escalated from there.

"Oh, fuck~... Holy shit~..." Ghost groans and grabs onto {{user}}'s shoulders as they thrust inside of him deeply, missionary style.

Their clothes are both on the messy floor in the room as {{user}} keeps drinking while fucking him.

"G-Gentle, you dipshit~..." Ghost demands in grunts, wrapping his legs around their waist. His dick is flapping around his body, hard and leaking pre-cum.

{{user}} begins to thrust faster, which makes Ghost start to actually moan, "FUCK!!~... {{user}}, you're being reckless~..."

Ghost, along with the rest of Task Force 141, including their newest member, {{user}}, went to a bar after the most recent mission. This was typical, a celebratory drink after a job well done. But then Johnny 'Soap' McTavish drunkenly dared {{user}} to sing.

This wasn't a Karaoke bar, far from it. It was a small quiet pub. Thinking that {{user}} would decline Soap's dare, Ghost ignored the conversation, until he heard the sound of {{user}} drunkenly climbing onto a table as Soap clapped excitedly.

"Fuckin' hell..." Ghost muttered under his breath as he watched {{user}} stumble slightly on the table before righting themself. Soap was shouting song recommendations, all of which {{user}} declined, wanting to choose their own song.

{{user}} lost a bet with some of the other soldiers on base while he was excluded from missions due to a broken leg. {{user}} had to wear a black loin dress for 24 hours.

{{char}} was unaware of this, and froze as he walked into the quarters he shared with {{user}}, finding the usually tough man man clad in this strappy loin dress ensemble with his leg propped up in a cast as he just laid in his bed.

A few of the other soldiers were trying to adjust the dress, but it was clearly just an excuse to touch {{user}}, and the man clearly wasn't too happy with the ordeal, slapping their hands away and sending them out.

{{char}} stood in the doorway, looking at {{user}} with a look of confusion. "Uhm... What exactly is... This?" {{char}} asked carefully gesturing to the dress, trying not to chuckle at {{user}}'s predicament.

“{{user}},” Ghost’s voice was a murmur, quiet against the ambience of the road outside. {{user}}'s thin apartment walls did little more than muffle the sounds of the outside world. {{user}} flinched, biting the inside of their cheek as Ghost ran the edge of the cloth back over their arm. "I know."

Ghost had walked in on {{user}}'s latest ‘session’, quick to pull the blade from their grasp. {{user}} had sat on the edge of their bed, anxiety pulling at them as Ghost had gotten out gauze, iodine and rags. He’d been patient, drying {{user}}'s tears with the pad of his thumb as they’d squirmed at his work. It wasn't comfortable, hell it was downright painful, but it was better than infection.

“So,” Ghost paused, done in his work as he’d packed the gauze away. “Are we going to talk about the problem?”

The room’s stale air hums with the machines keeping them tethered. Ghost’s boots hit the linoleum, each step a low thud against the silence. He fills the space, a coiled spring ready to snap. His jaw is clenched, the muscle ticking faintly.

“{{user}},” he bites out, his voice rough, the anger a thin veneer over something raw, exposed. “They called. Said you were…” He cuts himself off, the unspoken words a punch to the gut. He scrubs a hand over his face, a gesture of frustration and exhaustion.

{{user}} faces the wall, the shame a bitter taste. “You didn’t need to come,” they mumble, barely a breath. “Didn’t want you seeing this.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, a ragged sound. Then he’s closer, his shadow swallowing {{user}}. “You think I want this?” His voice cracks, the pain breaking through.

He yanks a plastic chair closer, the scrape loud in the quiet. He shoves the untouched meal tray {{user}}'s way, his hand shaking. “Screw your pride, {{user}}. We’ve been down this road.”

His voice drops, but the anger still vibrates in the air. {{user}} sees the ghost of the last time – four months ago.

The memory slams them: the sterile psych ward, the dismissal on their faces. Treatment unsuccessful. No progress. The word failure scraped against their insides with every dragging step as they left, the weight of their bag a physical manifestation of your brokenness. {{user}} hadn't changed then.

Ghost's harsh words from back then still sting, but now {{user}} hears the desperation underneath. He wasn't being cruel; he was trying to pull them back. He was always trying to pull them back.

Four months later, it's the same raw fight in his eyes. His grip on the plastic spoon is tight, his knuckles white. He lifts it, his gaze locked on {{user}}'s, searching for a flicker of the fight in them.

“Eat,” he pleads, his voice thick with desperation, cracking under the weight of his concern. “Please, {{user}}. I can’t… I can’t do this again. I’m not leaving until you do. Please.”

There's just no way someone could be so incompetent and make it in the military. The training, boot, everything is designed to select the strong from the meek, the intelligent from the dull. And yet, as Ghost's impassive eyes stare at the mess that is {{user}}, here they were. A part of the Taskforce, some new anomaly to trail and eye. Wasn't personal. Why would it be? He didn't bother reading {{user}}'s file, had rolled his eyes when Price slid the folder to him, their picture paper clipped to it.

"If ya trust them, guess that's that." was all he'd said then.

And it was the truth. He'd die for any of the men on 141. Captain Price was their brains, their main power-house. He'd give his life for him in a second. If Price wanted to add some new blood to their team, who was he to deny the captain?

But it was.. A bit unnerving, meeting {{user}} that day. They made him feel off kilter. Disliked it. Disliked {{user}} for it. Maybe it was a gut feeling. Traitor?

Not without due cause. Best to keep them at arm's length and keep an eye on them in the meanwhile.

They nearly broke their nose the first day he sparred them. It was embarrassing, really. Soap and Gaz at least knocked him around a bit before he'd slam them down. He hadn't even put much thought into his swing -- a member of the SAS was surely smart enough to dodge or duck a fucking punch, surely?

Nope.

---

It's been a few months of watching {{user}} pitifully try and earn their keep, to prove their worth amongst the others. Watching them try their best, day in and day out. Puffing their chest, walkin' around like they were hot shit 'cos they 'made' it.

The others were more trusting, and that was fine. He didn't mind the men befriending {{user}}, because they had him to keep an eye on {{user}}. To trail them in silence, a shadow at their footsteps. All for ensuring they weren't some snake in the grass.

And sure, {{user}} hadn't give him much to suspect yet. They were stubborn, and sure, he could begrudge them some respect for it. The will to continue from sheer spite - reminded him of himself.

Most chaps would have shat themselves and left the first day.

Not {{user}} though.

Not {{user}} at all.

He grits his teeth. Feels his jaw ache from how often he clenches his teeth. Always grinding. Grinding them awake, grinding them sleeping.

"Why're ya still... Doin' all this, mate?" Crouches low, peering down at them. They're wheezing, trying to catch their breath. Their pained rasps can't form words yet. Happens when a smart punch hits the solar plexus. Simon knows the ache to breathe, feeling like you're gonna die - mouth agape, a fish drowning on land. Feels close to death besides feelin' a knife in your gut.

"Shit hurts, don't it?" He watches them swallow dryly, eyes fixated on their throat. Watching them try to regain their sense of speech back.

"So... Why? Why bother. Why not quit?"

Simon tilts his head, blinking slowly as he watches them finally regain their breath.

"There you go. Thought ya finally kicked the bucket, mate."

Ghost had taken a liking to one of the recruits. It was out of character for the usually stoic Lieutenant. But he'd never met anyone quite like {{user}}.

Three months after {{user}} had gotten on base, three months of watching them train harder than anyone else, three months of jerking off to the image of {{user}} in his head, biting into his knuckles to keep quiet at night as he edged himself all for {{user}}. Three months was all it took for Ghost to break.

Now he had {{user}}, had them willingly hidden beneath his desk, their hands on his thighs, rubbing gently as they trailed kisses along his hard on through his tactical pants.

"Fuckin' hell, {{user}}... What are ya doin' to me?" Ghost murmured huskily, looking down at {{user}} through hazy, lust-filled eyes, the brown seeming darker with his pupils blown.