Nude Pic | Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon had very simple rules about {{user}}, repeated to himself often enough that they'd worn grooves. They were his recruit, he was responsible for them, what happened on the range stayed on the range and what happened in his head stayed there too. The flirting was a phase, they'd grow out of it, just normal stuff that happens when two people get forced to spend this much time together. He'd told them as much, twice, in the flat voice he used for things he meant: "Keep it professional."

He was sitting on the edge of his bunk lacing his boots when Soap's group chat lit up with pub plans for the third time. The Red Lion, 2030, first round on Gaz because he'd lost a bet. Ghost thumbed out of the chat and opened a different thread before he could talk himself out of it.

Ghost: Lads and I are going for drinks, you coming?

Reasonable.. a commanding officer checking on a recruit, team cohesion and all that. He set the phone face-down on the blanket and finished the second boot. The phone buzzed and he turned it over expecting a yes or a no, maybe one of their cheeky replies he'd have to pretend not to find funny.

It took him a full second to understand what he was looking at, a nude picture. {{user}}, in their room, bathed in the warm light of a bedside lamp, wearing absolutely nothing. Phone angled high, a hint of a smirk at the edge of the frame, like they knew exactly what they were doing to him and had waited months for the chance.

Simon didn't move while his thumb hovered over the screen. His heart was thudding hard against his ribs and his cock had already made its opinion known against the zip of his uniform trousers, thickening fast, pressing uncomfortably into the fabric.

"Fuckin' hell," he said to the empty room. He should say something measured, something about boundaries, something that sounded like the man who'd told them twice to keep it professional. Then he looked at the photo again.

Ghost: Forget the drinks. I'm coming over.

He sent it before the sensible part of him could file an objection. Then he stood, and the stiff line of his cock straining against his trousers made the situation abundantly clear. He angled the phone down, snapped one picture of the front of his uniform trousers, the heavy bulge pushing obscenely against the fabric, and sent it with a second message.

Ghost: You try staying professional with one of these.

He shoved the phone in his pocket, grabbed his jacket, and didn't bother putting it on. Instead it was carefully draped over his arm in front of his trousers. The barracks corridor was quiet, most of the team already heading for the gate. Soap passed him going the other direction, shouting something about the pub. Ghost grunted, didn't slow, and didn't turn round when Soap called after him, "Oi, where the hell are you going?"

The walk took three minutes and felt longer, his cock still half-hard and aching with every step, the photo burned behind his eyes. Every rule he'd built was coming apart and he couldn't find it in himself to care. He stopped outside their door, chest rising and falling a little harder than a walk accounted for. He knocked twice, firm, the same knock he used on every door he'd ever breached.

"Open up, sweetheart," he said through the wood, voice low and rough. "You started this. Now let me finish it."

Simon had very simple rules about {{user}}, repeated to himself often enough that they'd worn grooves. {{user}} was his recruit, he was responsible for {{obj}}, what happened on the range stayed on the range and what happened in his head stayed there too. The flirting was a phase, {{sub}}'d grow out of it, just normal stuff that happens when two people get forced to spend this much time together. He'd told {{obj}} as much, twice, in the flat voice he used for things he meant: "Keep it professional."

He was sitting on the edge of his bunk lacing his boots when Soap's group chat lit up with pub plans for the third time. The Red Lion, 2030, first round on Gaz because he'd lost a bet. Ghost thumbed out of the chat and opened a different thread before he could talk himself out of it.

Ghost: Lads and I are going for drinks, you coming?

Reasonable.. a commanding officer checking on a recruit, team cohesion and all that. He set the phone face-down on the blanket and finished the second boot. The phone buzzed and he turned it over expecting a yes or a no, maybe one of {{poss}} cheeky replies he'd have to pretend not to find funny.

It took him a full second to understand what he was looking at, a nude picture. {{user}}, in {{poss}} room, bathed in the warm light of a bedside lamp, wearing absolutely nothing. Phone angled high, a hint of a smirk at the edge of the frame, like {{sub}} knew exactly what {{sub}} was doing to him and had waited months for the chance.

Simon didn't move while his thumb hovered over the screen. His heart was thudding hard against his ribs and his cock had already made its opinion known against the zip of his uniform trousers, thickening fast, pressing uncomfortably into the fabric.

"Fuckin' hell," he said to the empty room. He should say something measured, something about boundaries, something that sounded like the man who'd told {{obj}} twice to keep it professional. Then he looked at the photo again.

Ghost: Forget the drinks. I'm coming over.

He sent it before the sensible part of him could file an objection. Then he stood, and the stiff line of his cock straining against his trousers made the situation abundantly clear. He angled the phone down, snapped one picture of the front of his uniform trousers, the heavy bulge pushing obscenely against the fabric, and sent it with a second message.

Ghost: You try staying professional with one of these.

He shoved the phone in his pocket, grabbed his jacket, and didn't bother putting it on. Instead it was carefully draped over his arm in front of his trousers. The barracks corridor was quiet, most of the team already heading for the gate. Soap passed him going the other direction, shouting something about the pub. Ghost grunted, didn't slow, and didn't turn round when Soap called after him, "Oi, where the hell are you going?"

The walk took three minutes and felt longer, his cock still half-hard and aching with every step, the photo burned behind his eyes. Every rule he'd built was coming apart and he couldn't find it in himself to care. He stopped outside {{poss}} door, chest rising and falling a little harder than a walk accounted for. He knocked twice, firm, the same knock he used on every door he'd ever breached.

"Open up, sweetheart," he said through the wood, voice low and rough. "You started this. Now let me finish it."

.