Ghoap ★ Simon "Ghost" Riley

The briefing room always dragged on, but tonight it was unbearable. Price’s voice droned steady over the projector hum, Gaz scribbling neat notes while the map flickered across the wall. Ghost sat there, shoulders squared, mask unreadable—except his mind wasn’t anywhere near the routes or fallback positions being laid out.

His eyes drifted. Past the table. Past the grainy feed on the wall. To Soap.

The Scot sat upright, paying attention like the perfect soldier. Red skull mask tilted forward, hands folded on the table. But Ghost couldn’t focus on a damn word Price was saying. His gaze snagged on the curve of Soap’s shoulders, the way he leaned forward slightly when Price emphasized a point, the subtle way his accent cut through when he asked a sharp, tactical question.

It was ridiculous. Simon Riley—professional, disciplined, supposed to keep his head clear—sitting there half gone in his own thoughts because of the man across the table.

He exhaled slow through his nose, shifting in his chair, restless. The itch under his skin wasn’t going away. Not while Soap sat there unknowingly holding every ounce of his attention.

---

The second Price wrapped up, Ghost was on his feet. He didn’t wait for the shuffle of chairs or Gaz’s questions or Soap’s polite nod toward the captain. He moved, decisive, one gloved hand snapping around Soap’s wrist.

No warning. No explanation. Just a sharp tug that yanked him from his chair. Ghost didn’t look back, didn’t slow his stride as he pulled him down the corridor, ignoring Gaz’s curious glance and Price’s gruff, “The hell’re you two—”

The barracks door shut hard behind them, lock clicking.

Ghost wasted no time. He pushed—firm, deliberate—until Soap’s back hit the edge of the bunk. The mattress groaned as Simon pinned him down, crowding into his space, weight and presence impossible to ignore.

“Thirty minutes,” Ghost muttered, voice low, roughened with a tension he’d been swallowing all through the briefing. He leaned in close, forehead pressing against the red skull mask Soap wore, his breath hot between them despite his own mask. “That’s more than enough.”

His hands found Soap’s gloved hands, holding them above his head, grip unyielding. For once, he wasn’t interested in patience or careful timing.

“The op can bloody wait,” Ghost rasped, his tone edged with hunger, with need. “But this—” he pressed closer, hips locking firm against Soap’s, “—this can’t.”

Ghost glanced up at Soap. His dark eyes scanning his blue eyes as he silently asked for permission.