@snekkypen - Tumblr Blog

Mar 25

Feeling is Believing (Oneshot)

Switch!Top!Male!Reader x Switch!Bottom!Simon "Ghost" Riley

tags: nsfw, smut (around 30% of the fic), explixit sexual content, OOC Ghost (maybe), military inaccuracies, hurt/comfort I think, scar appreciation, slow burn, size kink, praise kink, aftercare, some trauma and healing, size difference (Ghost implied to be much bigger than reader)

wc: 7.8k

Self-sufficient. That’s a word you like to describe yourself.

Whenever there’s paperwork, you do it as soon as you’re able. You hate the idea of your workload piling up, so you handle it immediately, whether it bores you or not.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

Your Commanding Officer picks up on it quickly. You’re always the first to submit a full report after an operation, always the first to clear your desk for the day. More importantly, none of it is half-assed. Clean, thorough, and reliable.

He has no complaints.

What you do notice, however, is the shift in your assignments.

More paperwork. More filing. Fewer deployments. You’re sent out less yet still expected to document everything when others return.

You don’t hate it.

If anything, you’ve settled into it. There’s a system now, a routine. Predictable. Efficient. Quiet. And apparently, useful.

Your CO, still impressed and clearly wanting to make use of you more, starts giving you more access. Logistics, intel, even occasional clearance into operational meetings. At first, you’re only there to deliver reports.

Then you start noticing things.

Some small gaps in plans. Overlooked details on maps. Timing that doesn’t quite add up.

The first time, you keep it to yourself. The second you saw it again, you lean in just enough to murmur your concern to your CO before stepping out. Then one time, he voices it for you once you’re gone.

The feedback he received was good.

After that, he starts keeping you around.

More invites to meetings. More asking for your input.

And now… Another one.

You enter the room with a report in hand, the low hum of the officers’ conversation already filling the space. A few heads turn briefly at your arrival before returning to the map spread across the center table.

You walk straight to your CO and hand over the logistics and intel report on the enemy base.

He takes it, skimming through the file, then a smile appears on his face after a pause.

“This is the one I mentioned,” he says while wrapping his arm around your shoulder, loud enough so everyone in the room can hear.

Your presence is acknowledged properly this time, eyes lingering a second than before. Curious eyes. Assessing you.

Then your CO looks back at you. “Well?” he prompts. “Anything to add?”

The room falls still as you glance at the map, eyes scanning over the layout again and again. Entry points, elevation, marked patrol routes.

“The front team…” you say. “They’re a bit too out in the open.”

There’s a brief pause. You take this chance to step closer to the table, pointing at the marked position.

“If they go in from here, they’re going to be seen almost immediately. There’re too many angles looking down on that spot.” Your finger then shifts slightly across the map. “From here, here… and even this path. If anyone’s watching, they won’t miss them.”

Someone leans in, following where you point.

“It’s the fastest way in, sure,” you admit. “But it also makes them the easiest target.”

You tap slightly off to the original marker this time. “If they move a little off to the side instead, there’s more cover. Less chance of being spotted right away.” Another small pause. “Or… don’t send them in first at all. Let a smaller group go ahead quietly. If things go bad, then they move in.”

You take a breath. “And based on the report I just handed in… The enemy’s base is heavily guarded. If we want to get every criminal within the place, we need to be stealthy. Any compromise in our position will surely lead to their higher ups escaping.”

And with that, you take your leave. At this point, it’s not your business whether they’ll take your suggestion into account or not.

Taskforce 141 doesn’t just accept team-ups from anyone. They don’t need to.

Reputation alone is not enough to carry most operations, but when they do work with others, it’s never blind trust. It’s a result of an observation… an evaluation. A quiet process of deciding who’s worth relying on… and who isn’t.

You and your unit have passed that much already. Already having a couple of joint operations under your team’s belt with the 141. Enough to prove you and your team are not a liability to them.

Still, that doesn’t mean much to Ghost.

When they return to your base for another possible joint operation, its now familiar ground for him. Already knowing the layout, the quickest routes between buildings, the quieter corridors, the places people tend to gather and the ones they avoid. If he has a destination in mind, he already has a mapped route that is easy to move through without being noticed.

He keeps to himself, as always. Stays close to his team when needed. Drifts and returns to his quarters when he doesn’t.

Sometimes he just walks with no destination in mind. Just the need for some movement. A habit more than anything else. It keeps his head clear. Keeps his thoughts from settling too long in one place.

It was during those times he started to notice you.

Not because you stood out. But because you chose not to.

Your CO spoke highly of you. That alone enough is to put you on his radar. Praise like those are rarely given without reason, and just as often misplaced.

He’s seen it a couple of times already.

Soldiers trying too hard. Talking too much, always hovering where they can be seen, where they can be acknowledged. Mistaking attention for competence.

So, he watched. From a distance at first.

You were on a treadmill one morning, pacing pushed just past what most would comfortably hold. Yet he sees the determination printed on your face. No complaints. Pushing yourself past your limits, not too much, but enough to test yourself.

You don’t slow down early. Not even looking around to see who’s watching. That detail made him think of you as someone who genuinely wants to push themselves more, to improve yourself.

Another time, at the weight rack, he watches you. You load the plates, complete a single set, and pause. Your brow furrows, deep in thought, as you add two more plates to each side. You try again, strain evident, but give up halfway, exhaling sharply. Disappointment flickers across your face as you remove a plate from each side and continue your lifting, steady again.

Just yesterday morning, after the morning PT, when most are still cooling down or lingering around, you’re already indoors. Seated on your desk. Papers stacked neatly in front of you. Reports being filled out with steady, consistent movements. No rushing, no dragging it out.

Just efficient and precise.

Logging inventory like it matters, because to you it actually does. Every number means something.

Most treat it like a chore. But you don’t.

You do your job. And damn you do it well. That much is clear.

But it’s not just that. It’s the pattern, the consistency.

The way you move through the day. The way you don’t insert into conversation unless necessary. Not lingering. Not trying to be part of something you’re not needed in.

No wasted motion. No wasted words. Not looking for approval.

You just... exist.

And somehow, that’s what makes you stand out to him. he finds it unusual really. Enough for him to keep watching.

Competent. That’s the word he settles on. A conclusion he files inside his mind away.

So, when the next briefing comes around, he’s already aware of you before you even step into the room.

He takes his usual position, slightly removed but just enough to observe and hear the briefing without directly being involved. Map already laid out across the table. Voices overlapping, a mix of low and focused mumbles, bits of planning being pieced together.

Then you enter.

Report in hand. Posture steady with no hesitation in your steps.

A few glances your way. Most don’t linger. But his does.

Your CO takes the report from you, then pauses. “This is the one I mentioned.”

That shifts the room, attention redirects back to you. He watches… waiting to see how you’ll react. Or rather… how you didn’t.

No visible change. No awkwardness under the sudden attention. You don’t straighten up more than necessary.

You just stand there. Waiting… and then-

“Well? Anything to add?”

There it is. The moment most soldiers fumble.

He expected hesitation. A pause too long. Maybe an over-explanation dressed up to sound useful. Or maybe you not even entertaining the question and deciding to walk away from the challenge. Instead-

“The front team… they’re a bit too out in the open.” That made his focus sharpens. Not outwardly that would give him away. But internally…

You step closer to the table, pointing things out. Angles. Sightlines. Exposure. You don’t dress it up. Don’t even try to sound smarter than you are.

Just… stating it.

Clear. Direct. Easy to follow. With no room of miscommunication.

He tracks your hand as it moves across the map, mentally running through the plan again.

You’re not bullshitting your way out of the question. It is clear you’ve thought about what to say.

“If they go in from here, they’re going to be seen almost immediately.”

Correct.

“Too many angles looking down that spot.”

Also correct.

He’s already marking the same points in his head as you speak them aloud.

“It’s the fastest way in, sure… but it also makes them the easiest target.”

You’re not pushing for agreement. Not even glancing around to check if anyone’s convinced.

You just say it. Then offering an alternative.

A simple adjustment for a better cover, less exposure. Or delay the movement entirely, sending a smaller team in first and keep the larger force back until it matters.

A practical and measured alternative plan.

You finish speaking. No trailing words. No attempt to reinforce your point. You let your words hold.

If only you weren’t already assigned-

The thought comes, uninvited. And just as quickly, he sets it aside. He didn’t dismiss it, just noted.

Then you walk away, not as just some face, not as just a name attached to your CO’s praise. But as someone worth remembering.

Rumors always started small. Usually among the lowest ranks.

In the mess hall one afternoon, Ghost scrapes his plate clean while his team yaps about something he’s not interested in. He isn’t really listening to anyone, just existing in his own world as he eats

Then, he overhears two privates whispering behind him.

“…swear to God, mate… saw him in the showers after PT this morning…” one says, voice low. “Can’t believe it.”

“Shut up,” the other hisses. “I’m eating here and you’re making it worse.”

“Making what worse? I’m telling you… twelve inches, at least. That’s why he got his callsign ‘Tripod’, the man is packing a third leg.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t react much. He doesn’t need to. This kind of talks is nothing new to him, just another form of idle noise that fills the gaps between operations.

He files it away within his head as just some irrelevant gossip.

At first.

But as the days pass, the callsign keeps surfacing. In passing conversations. In quiet jokes. In half-suppressed laughter when certain names are mentioned.

“Tripod.”

It lingers.

Eventually, the pieces fall into place. A name. A face. A pattern he’s already familiar with.

You.

The realization settles without much reaction. No surprise worth noting. No shift in how he sees you.

The information is simply added. Filed neatly alongside everything else he’s observed about you.

Another detail. Nothing more…

The night has already fallen, and Ghost prefers it that way.

The showers are quieter, less occupied, less crowded, less noise, fewer eyes. It makes things easier.

He steps in a shower stall, the air thick with stream, the sound of running water echoing faintly off the tiled walls.

He keeps to himself, as always. Others might describe him as quick and efficient, just get in and get out, with no wasted time. But here, it’s different.

Here, he slows down.

There’s no rush. No pressure for him to be fast. Just the steady rhythm of the water and his breath.

He takes his time, still methodical in every movement. Washing, rinsing, repeating, each step deliberate.

A routine. An intricate ritual he’s built for himself over time.

One of the few moments where everything is quiet.

Safe.

Because here, at this hour, no one’s looking. No one’s supposed to be looking. At him.

He doesn’t mind his scars. He doesn’t hate nor regret them, much. They’re a part of his life of being a soldier. Proof of what he’s endured. What he’s survived.

But that doesn’t mean he wants the stares. The way people try not to look… and fail.

So, he rather avoids it.

Late nights, empty spaces, minimal risks.

Control.

That’s what this is. That’s what this always is.

Which is why the sound of footsteps cuts through the quiet like a blade.

Close. Too close. Stopping right beside him.

His shoulder tense instantly, every muscle tightening under instinct alone. His jaw sets, a frown already forming as irritation sparks.

Out of all the free stalls, this fucker chose the one beside me.

This was supposed to be empty. His space. His me-time. Now ruined.

He turns, already bracing for the usual. Another pair of eyes, another moment of having to endure being seen.

He debates in his mind whether to call the fucker off and ask them to move.

Only to find… it’s you.

Sure, you were always on the move. Reports from one desk to another, one office to the next, never really stopping until everything was done.

But today… today wasn’t one of those days you could handle easily.

You’re exhausted. Completely knackered.

Your body aches in that dull, persistent way that comes from being on your feet too long, your mind just as drained from hours of sorting, organizing, thinking. You can feel it clinging to you. The fatigue, grime, the weight of the day sitting heavy on your skin.

So, the moment you’re finally dismissed, you don’t linger.

You head straight for the showers.

Head down as you undress yourself in the locker room. Only focused on one thing, that is, to clean up, clear your head, just standing under the water longer than you should.

You think there’s nobody in the shower room this late in the night. Not registering who’s already there. Because you’re too tired and too used to your routine.

You pick the nearest stall available without a second thought.

Turning on the shower as you step in. That’s when you felt some presence beside you. You turn to only realize you’re not alone.

You freeze.

Right beside you stand a towering figure, broad, and unmoving. And already looking at you.

At first, you don’t realize who he is, but you see his piercing gaze and instantly your head recognized it.

The mask is gone. But the man beneath it isn’t. Your breath catches, for just a second.

Because this was the rumored lieutenant, Ghost. The one who prefers to be alone.

During your runs, you always hear recruits complain when he gets assigned as the designated trainer. You noticed him sometimes during meetings, and the rumors checks out, he always stays a little far off where the crowd settles, and you always try your best not to look at his eyes. Since, a single stare felt like a dagger caressing your skin.

And right now, that dagger feels very much real as he’s glaring at you.

You feel the spike of tension crawling up your spine. Your body locks up, instinct telling you to look away, to apologize, to leave.

But you don’t.

Since something else catches your attention…

The scars. They’re… everywhere.

To you, it wasn’t messy nor random.

Your fear falters as your mind focuses, scanning his body. Taking the details of his scars, the location, where it starts and ends. You’re mesmerized by the man before you, that you didn’t notice how the lieutenant’s shoulders tensed further, at you returning the staring.

He tries his best to continue his own ritual but he’s far too uncomfortable to move. Usually, around this time, people were quick to apologize and leave him alone, maybe even steal some lingering gazes. But you, you’re intently staring. Like you forgot he’s even here.

Then he hears.

“…knife wound,” you murmur under your breath, eyes tracing a jagged line across his forearms. “Upward motion… definitely a result of blocking.” Your head tilts, studying the angle. “Attacker was aiming higher,” your eyes landed on his chest. “The heart, maybe.” A pause. “Good deflection, since the blade didn’t go too deep.”

Your gaze shifts without hesitation, unto a circular-ish scar. “This one… a gunshot. Seems to be close range base on the abrasions around the entrance…” you lean in sightly. “Angle is off… so, he was moving when it hit.”

Another scar catches your eye. Something rougher and older. “…field-treated,” you add quietly. “No proper stitching, so it didn’t heal cleanly like the rest…”

Then it hits you. You’ve been talking, out loud, about him. Invading his personal space and inspecting his injuries without an inch of his permission.

Eyes widening, snapping back into the moment. You straighten immediately, stepping back before bowing your head.

“Sir, I’m deeply sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to…” words fall out of your mouth, quick and genuine.

It also made his eyes widen from the sudden bowing. Sure, he got apologizes when people realized, but not to this degree, they usually say it and leave.

When you dip your head lower in your apology, that’s when you see more. More older, older than the field-treated one you saw seconds ago. Something more uglier.

Your gaze catches on his ankles first, and you pause. “…restrain marks,” you breathe, eyes flicking back up to see his wrists. Same wear. Proving that both set of scars came at the same time. Worn into his skin and not cut clean. You can only imagine it was left to be open and infected the way the scar healed.

You straighten yourself again, as you stare at his eyes. Now seeing his uncomfortableness of showing his skin. You feel ashamed. Minutes ago, you were eyeing his scars, like some sort of data. Forgetting that each of it was a story, a reminder of what the bearer has gone through.

“You didn’t deserve those, sir.” His eyes avoid yours. “But I’m glad you’re still here… with us.”

The words hang in the steam-thick air. Almost enough to make his eyes water.

So, he blinks, once, then again. Chest tightening in a way it hasn’t in years, a mixture of disbelief and something raw he isn’t used to naming.

Glad I’m still here.

The same words echo in his mind again. It wasn’t pity. Just… acknowledgement. Recognition.

Recognition that he, Simon “Ghost” Riley, survived, endured, and still matters. That someone didn’t recoil, judge, nor look at the scars and see brokenness.

For a moment, he feels it… that tight knot in his chest loosening, just a fraction. His lips press together, trying to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. He can feel moisture pricking the corners of his eyes, threatening to betray him.

Not here. Not now. Not like this.

He’s thankful that the droplets from the shower may be helping him hide his current predicament.

A warmth spreads from his chest, spreading tentatively outward, like sunlight through a thick storm he’s been stuck in for far too long. The usual walls he wears, the mask, the deliberate silence, the control, they feel thinner somehow, fragile in the face of this simple, honest recognition.

He swallows again, quietly. Gaze drops just slightly, locked somewhere between your chest and eyes, not fully meeting, but he knows you’re still staring at him, in a way that terrifies and comforts him all at once.

Someone… finally.

Thoughts he hasn’t let himself have in a long time, buried under years of fear, self-reliance, and the weight of being untouchable.

And he feels it… hope.

A little spark that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to carry everything alone anymore. His shoulders dip slightly under the tension, a subtle release he doesn’t fully notice.

Just as the thought rises, it quickly dissipates as he realized he may have been quiet for far too long, the awkwardness hanging heavy in the air.

He coughs, tilting his head slightly toward the wall, trying to look busy while the tightness in his chest slowly eases. “Finish your shower, soldier,” he mutters, voice low but steady.

You do, though your own heart feels oddly fluttery. For a fleeting second, you catch the faintest crinkle at the corner of his mouth, and something inside you warms.

And then… the thought hits him. That nickname. “Tripod.”

Now that we’re here, might as well confirm right?

So, he does. Stealing a quick glance at your equipment to see whether he’ll believe the rumor or not.

Bloody hell…

It’s been a hell of a week for the lieutenant.

And not because of mission. Not because of paperwork. No, not any of his duties as a soldier.

Because of you.

You keep showing up, physically and mentally. Uninvited.

Whether its in the middle of drills, during briefings, or especially when he’s along, just trying to clear his head. Your voice, your words that night. It stuck to him, and worse than that it lingers.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face as if that would somehow clear the thought, when he fully knows it doesn’t.

Because then his mind betrays him further. Back in the moment at the showers. For some reason, he can’t get rid of the imagery of your equipment out his head. His mind began to wonder as he recalls the memory.

The length… he was sure it’ll take both his hands to cover it. The girth… and he was more sure his hand would struggle to fully wrap around it. He imagines the heat of your cock, warming up his hands as he slowly strokes you. Imagining the little twitches it’ll make the moment he’ll get you mouth on you.

Then… your words. He begins to imagine all the possible sweet nothings you’ll whisper to him the moment he’ll sink his hole into you. He wants it, to hear your voice again, words directed at him. He wants to feel his chest flutter, not just because of your massive dick rearranging his guts, but because your words makes him feel good.

It’s distracting, annoyingly so. Enough that he misses a beat during a briefing. Enough that his responses come a second to late. Enough that it doesn’t go unnoticed.

Price notices everything. “Something on your mind, lieutenant?”

The question comes naturally, but there’s weight behind it.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Doesn’t look back at him either. He just keeps his gaze forward, shoulders squared, like nothing’s wrong.

His silence made Price’s brows furrow. “Your focus is slipping, that’s not like you.”

A pause.

And then another.

Ghost exhales through his nose, nice and slow. “…it’s nothing, sir.”

Price just hums, clearly unconvinced. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

The silence stretches between them. The captain waits. He always does.

Eventually, Ghost speaks. Not about everything, just enough to give the captain context. He’d rather die than confess to his captain about him fantasizing about another soldier’s dick piercing his insides.

Price listens, not interrupting a single second or thought from the lieutenant. Then, he smiles wide. Not mocking the poor man, just… knowing.

“Well,” Price says, folding his arms. “About time.”

Ghost’s head tilts slightly, a faint frown forming. “…sir?”

“I was starting to think you’d buried that part of yourself for good.”

He doesn’t answer back, he doesn’t need to.

This made Price’s gaze soften. “You’re distracted,” he admits. “And I don’t like that.” Another beat. “But I’ll take it over you forgetting that you’re still human after all, not just a ghost off the field as well.” A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Just make sure it doesn’t get you killed, yeah?”

Ghost exhales quietly, something unreadable crossing his expression as he takes his captain’s words. “…yes, sir.”

After that talk he decides he’ll face the root of his problem.

You.

You keep your presence down, same as always as you do your job. Filing logistics report with meticulous care, suggesting route tweaks during briefings that shaved off unnecessary risks, hauling gear without complaint. You prefer your work to speak for itself, because that way, no one needed to hover over you, and you like it that way.

But recently, it’s not the same anymore. Whenever you’re on the move during office hours, you feel it. A constant gaze behind you hiding somewhere. At first, you shrug it off. But the lingering presence stays. And that’s when you notice.

It’s Ghost.

You have no idea why the lieutenant is overseeing most of your movements now.

During morning PT, you hit the obstacle course with your usual steady rhythm. Vaulting walls, low-crawling under wires, breath even despite the burn in your quads. Sweat and mud soak your shirt as you crest the final rope climb. Reaching the top is when you notice him again.

Stationed at the edge of the field, arms crossed over his tactical vest, mask impassive under the brim of his cap. Not participating, just… watching. His gaze locks on you through the slits, unblinking, as if cataloging every flex of your arms, every heave of your chest.

You try to shake it off, lieutenants oversee drills sometimes, but the weight of his stare lingers like humidity after rain.

By midday briefing in the ops tent, being called by your CO again, the unease you felt roots deeper. You sit at the back, notebook open as you jot notes on every information being shared over the table.

You answer when your CO asks for your input. You see the captain of the other team your joining ops with, nodding as he approves of your input at the head of the table.

But as the discussion drags, you feel it again… that prickling awareness at your nape.

Ghost is across the room, leaning against a post, but his focus isn’t on the projected slides on the television. It drifts to you, subtle tilts of his head tracking your pen scratches, the way you shift in your seat.

When you glance up, his eyes snaps away, but not before you caught the intensity, like a sniper sighting a target.

Why is he constantly watching me?

You think as your pulse kicks up, fingers tightening on the edge of your notebook.

Afternoon training ramps it up. Live-fire range, you zero in on the targets with precise bursts, constant headshots and seamless reloads. The recoil jars your shoulder, but you stay locked in, ignoring the chatter of your squad behind you.

Halfway through the second mag, you notice a movement in your periphery. It’s Ghost again, prowling the perimeter fence, gloved hands loose at his sides. He paused near the observation bunker, his body angled towards the lanes, and you swear his stare bored into your back.

A round jams mid-drill, you cleared it quick, but your hands feel clumsy under the imagined weight of his attention.

Focus. You mutter to yourself, slamming the mag home and squeezing the trigger. But the nervousness coils tighter, heart thudding not from exertion, but from the sudden spotlight.

No one else clocks it, too busy with their own drills. It’s just you, hyperaware, wondering if you fucked up somewhere, resulting of this uncharacteristic orbit.

Evening rolls around and you’re in the mess hall. Tray already filled with food, you claim a corner table, taking out a manual to unwind as you take spoonful of bites. The fluorescent buzz of the lights above you mixed with low conversations and forks scraping plates.

That’s when Ghost slides in without a word in front of you. His own tray clattering down, his presence swallowing the space like smoke.

You freeze again the moment you register him.

“Soldier,” he rumbles, his voice sends a shiver down your spine. No preamble, no talking after that. Just his loaded stare as he eats his portion.

You swallow hard, fork pausing mid-air. “Lieutenant.” The word comes out steadier than you felt, but your gut twists.

The mess hall is supposed to be your reprieve, a place to wind down. And now, he’s here as well. The squad near you shoots curious glances your way, but Ghost’s aura kept them at bay.

“Everything alright, sir?” you ask, keeping your tone neutral.

He doesn’t answer right away, just chewing slowly, gaze dropping to your hands before flicking back up. “Just checking in.”

His words hang vague, like there's something raw and unspoken.

You just nod, forcing another bite, but the food tastes bitter now. Every shift of his frame, every subtle stolen glance, it amplifies the knot in your chest.

You finish quick, excusing yourself with a crisp ‘Good night, sir,’ and bolting for the barracks with your pulse racing.

The night falls heavy, but sleep seems to evade you. In your bunk, staring at the ceiling, you replayed the day. What even is there to replay but Ghost. Ghost. GHOST.

What does he want from me?

This feels like a pursuit, and in the dim glow of the barracks lights, it left you wired, body humming with half anxious energy, and the other half, you can’t explain as forbidden thoughts creeps in despite the dread.

His presence has been constant that sometimes you expect him now. What you didn’t expect, was due to this, is you forming some sort of sick fantasies in your head.

You kept replaying your memories that contains him, trying to find the cause of him watching your every single move. And that’s when you recalled.

The showers.

You weren’t lying when you were mesmerized with his body. It was clear he trains really hard to keep himself in shape. His bulging muscles, from his biceps to his thighs, it made you want to see him like that again.

But, you also recalled, the scars. You didn’t mind it really, in fact, it made you more proud to see him still standing this day. You weren’t lying when you said those words to him.

These mixed feelings continued to plague you. But one thing was clear, his smile near the end of your interaction. It was something real and genuine, you feel it within you. And you want to see him like that again.

Thoughts of him smiling, the way you want to give him the love (platonically, you want to think) he deserves. That he still deserves to live his life outside of being a soldier.

What the fuck am I thinking, he’s a lieutenant. Maybe I don’t belong to his team but what if-

You stop the thoughts as your cheeks reddens.

And so, you started to avoid him.

It starts out small.

During PT, you angle your path to the far side of the course, vaulting obstacles with your eyes fixed ahead, refusing to scan the sidelines. Briefings became a game of selective seating, slipping in last to claim a spot farthest from his usual lean against the wall. On the range, you scheduled your slots for off-hours.

It works, mostly. No one questions the sudden shift, since your outputs stayed flawless.

But the base feels smaller, the air thicker with an unspoken evasion. And deep down, you know it can’t hold.

That pull you continue to get as you get reminded of that shower scene. Better to ghost the Ghost, keeps the lines clean.

The lieutenant notice, of course he did. His presence sharpens into something more, like a predator scenting evasion.

A flicker of his silhouette during mealtime, where you bolt early to avoid sitting with him again. During briefings, the way you hide yourself behind some officers.

By mid-week, the irritation coils in him like a spring. Jaw clenching under the mask during drills he oversees from afar, responses to Price’s queries coming sharper, laced with mild venom. He started to snap at rookies, because his eyes hunt you, the one slipping from his grasp.

It pissed him off, this deliberate distance after the raw vulnerability, you’d cracked open in him. You’d seen his scars, filled him in ways that haunted his nights. And now? Dodging like he was the enemy. It gnaws at him, fueling a restless burn that demanded confrontation.

He tried to play nice… but he won’t play your game.

It’s another night for you. Wrapping up a solo gear inventory check in the warehouse, crates stacked neat, logs updated. Your shoulders knot from the day’s haul, you step out into the cooling air, boot soles crunching the gravel beneath you as you slowly made your way back to the barracks.

For a moment, everything is quiet, you, the night sky, and the wind flowing quietly as you take a deep breath. Then it shattered.

A gloved hand clamps your bicep, yanking you sideways into the narrow alley between supply sheds. Your back slams against the wall, breath punching out as Ghost loomed, pinging you there with his bulk.

His free hand braces beside your head, forearm caging you in, the heat of him radiating through your layers and his. Up close, his eyes burn, dark, stormy, laced with that pissed off look you sensed brewing for the past few days.

I’m screwed.

“L-Lieutenant,” you stammer, heart slamming your ribs, body tensing to bolt. But his grip tightens, thumb digging into muscle, holding you fast, cutting any chance of exit down to nada.

“Enough,” he growls, voice low and rough. “You think I didn’t notice what you were doing? Dodging me like I’m the fucking opposing force.” His breath ghosted hot through the fabric of his mask, inches from your face, and you catching the faint scent of gun oil and sweat clinging to him.

And it slowly made your dick wake up.

FUCK.

You swallow, throat dry, eyes darting for escape but finding none. “Sir, I-”

“No.” he leans in closer, knee nudging between your thighs to pin your legs, the pressure firm and unyielding.

FUCK.

Panic stirs within you as his thighs starts to send shivers all over you body as your slowly raging boner announces his presence. You thank whoever is above as Ghost seems to have not realize it yet.

“You made me feel… human.”

What?

You stare back at him now. Confusion spread across your face.

“Invading my thoughts and dreams. And now you hide? Like it meant nothing?” his words hang heavy... vulnerability cracking through his tough facade.

Your pulse thunders, as your cock now stirring traitorously against your zipper at the proximity and his voice. Your eyes continue to look for a way out before he finds out what this situation is doing to you.

His hand slides up, fingers curling around your jaw, tiling your head to force your eye contact back. He presses closer, hips grinding once, deliberate, and he feels it, and so does you.

He is also sporting a hard on underneath his pants, letting you feel the hard line of his arousal against your thigh. Suddenly, grabbing your groin, his turn to feel you.

Feeling your own hardness against his grip, he grins. “This is mine now. You’re mine.” Admission now out in the open, possessive and fierce. The closeness of his face against yours makes you notice the scars underneath, itching under the balaclava. “No more avoiding or I’ll make you regret it.”

Heat flushes your skin, submission coiling tight in your core, but you nod, breath hitching. “Yes, sir.”

A low hum rumbles from him, satisfaction now clear within. Without warning, he drags you from the wall, iron grip on your wrist, hauling you through the shadows towards the quarters.

The door to his clicks shut behind you, lock snicking reminding you of the finality. There’s no turning back now.

He shoves you against the door, teeth nipping your lip hard enough to sting.

“Clothes off,” he orders, stepping back, stripping his own vest and shirt in efficient yanks. His scars bared again, jagged knife lines crisscrossing his chest, puckered bullet crates dotting ribs, burn welts twisting over his shoulder. Pale skin stretched taut over muscle, cock already straining his pants, now leaking a wet spot.

You obey, fumbling as you remove the belt and zipper, shoving your pants down. Your cock sprang free, heavy and thick. Veins throbbing, head flushed dark. Ghost’s gaze locks on it, hunger flashing raw.

“Fucking missed this thing.” He mutters. Before you can ask what he meant, he’s already dropping to his knees with predatory grace.

One hand wrap around your base, fingers barely circling the girth, the other steadying your hip. He leans in, tugging his mask up just enough to free his mouth, tongue swirling the slit to lap the pre-cum.

Then, he sinks deeper, throat relaxing to take half of your length. He gags as he tries to push more inches, but struggles. Disappointed, he pumps what he couldn’t swallow, thumb pressing a vein that made your knees buckle.

Moans spills from you. “Fuck, sir… ahh yes.” Each assault of his lips drawing whimpers, body arching in the wet heat. He growls around your cock, the vibrations shooting sparks up your spine, free hand digging bruises into your thigh as he stables you.

Spit-slick sounds fill the room as his sucks turns sloppy, hungry, aiming to claim every inch. Your balls tighten, pleasure coiling within, but he pulled off with a pop, strings of saliva connecting his swollen lips to your glistening head.

“No, not yet,” he rasps, standing, shoving his pants down. His cock bobs free, curving up with a bead of pre at the tip, but he ignores it. Instead, pushing you toward the cot. “On your back. Now.”

You scramble, heart pounding, cock throbbing untouched as you stretch out. He straddles your hips, knees near your sides. Rubbing his ass against your shaft, and that’s when you feel it.

He’s wet?

You look around to see the bottle of lube on his bedside table. Turning back to him confirms your suspicions.

He raises up, as he grabs the lube and slicks his fingers. He works his hole quick, two breaching deep, scissoring with grunts that betrayed his impatience.

As you just stare, it was obvious he’s done this before. And the idea of you being the reason for it made you the more harder.

“Want you inside, now,” he demands, voice thick, positioning your cock at his entrance.

He sinks down slow at first, ring clenching tight around your head, then dropping with a hiss as inches stretches him wide, only halfway in.

“Fucking…. Big,” he groans, hands splaying on your chest, fingers gripping hard.

You can only moan loudly, the vice of his ass gripping you like a fist, hot and unyielding. “Tight-” your hips bucking up instinctively, but he pins you down. One hand now on your shoulder, while the other on your stomach. Rolling his pelvis to take you deeper.

“Quiet,” he snaps, but his own breath hitched, face contorting in pleasure-pain as he bottoms out, your balls finally snug against the back of his ass.

After a few seconds of adjusting, he rode you, hard and commanding. Ass slamming down, inner walls milking your length with each grind.

“That’s it, fill me up.”

You can’t think well anymore, the way he’s just using you makes you throb inside him harder. His words not even registering.

Due to his amazing blowjob earlier, your release hit like a grenade, cock jerking deep in Ghost’s ass as thick ropes of cum paints his insides. Gripping his hips hard, your fingers bruising the scarred skin there, slamming him down one last time to burry every pulse.

He groans low, settling his full weight on you, but he didn’t stop. Hips circling low, grinding to squeeze out more, his walls clenching rhythmically around your now sensitive shaft.

The overstimulation rips through you, nerves firing sharp, making your body spasm under him. Legs trembling, abs clenching as you buck weakly, a whine escaping your lips.

“Fuck- sir, too much,” you gasp, but he just hums, pressing his forehead to your chest, mask rough against your skin.

Something mumbled vibrates through you, words lost in the haze. Your mind slowly claws back from the edge of your high, breath steadying. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that, sir?”

He lifts his head slightly, eyes dark and vulnerable through the mask’s slits, voice a rough whisper. “Please, don’t stop yet. I-Its your turn to control.”

The shift hits you like a green light, his submission laid bare, yielding the reins. Heat surges in your chest, cock already twitching again inside him despite the sensitivity.

You nod, hands sliding up his back, tracing the ridges of old wounds. “Don’t worry sir, I got you. Gonna make you feel good.”

“Simon…” he breathes. “Please, call me Simon.”

With a grunt, you roll him off you, careful but grip firm, his ass lifting with a wet schlick, cum leaking from his stretched hole onto the cot. He lands on his back, legs splaying wide, cock still hard and leaking against his abs, scars on full display under the dim light.

You kneel between his thighs, grabbing the back of his knees to hook them over your shoulders, folding him open. His breath hitches, hands fisting the sheets, but he doesn’t resist, eyes locked on yours, trust clear in his gaze, needy.

“Look at you,” you murmur, lining your cock up again, the head nudging his cum-slick rim. “All these strengths, these marks… they’re fucking beautiful, Simon.”

You push in slow, watching his face twist, lips parting on a silent moan as your thickness invades him again, cum easing the slide. Inch by inch, you sink deep, balls pressing to his ass, the heat of him pulling you under.

“Every scar tells how you survived. Such a good goddamn warrior.”

He whimpers, back arching off the cot, his cock jumping at the praise. Voice cracking as he calls for your name, hands reaching for your arms, gripping to anchor himself.

You start to thrust, steady at first, pulling out to the tip before driving back in, the slap of your hips against his ass filling the room once more. Each plunge hits deep, his prostate being grinded deep as your shaft passes through, making his thighs quake over your shoulders.

“I love these burns here.” You pant, leaning down to kiss one puckered spot on his chest, tongue flicking the rough texture. “Shows you fought fire and won. So hot, so tough.”

His moans grow louder, now unrestrained. “Ahh, fuck yes.” Head trashing, mask slipping slightly from sweat. His ass clenching around you, sucking you deeper with every withdraw, cum squelching out around your base.

You pick up the pace, pounding harder, one hand bracing beside his head, the other stroking his cock in firm pulls, thumb swiping the slit to spread his pre-cum.

“Your body’s perfect like this,” you growl, hips snapping forward, balls smacking skin. “Scars and all… fucking makes me want you more. You’re mine, Simon, just as I’m yours. Taking my cock so well.” The words pour out, raw and honest, targeting the shame he hides under all the layers and masks.

Tears prick his eyes, visible even in shadow, but pleasure overrides it. Body shuddering, moans turning to sobs of release. “Don’t- fuck, keep talking…” he bucks up to meet your thrusts, ass rippling around you, chasing the edge.

You oblige, voice low between grunts. “Love running my hands over them, feeling your heat.” Your free hand tracing a knife scare across his abs. “You’re fucking gorgeous, Simon. Every fucking inch.” Pressing firm as you fuck him relentless, your cock dragging his walls hitting his spot over and over.

It breaks him, his back arched, ass clamping as he cums hard, cock erupting in your fist. Ropes of his cum shot across his chest, splattering the scars, his mouth open in a silent scream that turned vocal. Moaning your name before a “Fuck, yes!” released from his mouth. Body convulsing, walls milking you in ways that nearly pulls your own orgasm back.

You let him ride through it, thrusts slowing to deep rolls, drawing out every spasm until he slumps, panting and spent.

You remove your cock inside him as you lay on his cum-covered chest, jerking your cock, head aiming for his face. You remove his mask fully first before painting his face white.

Emotions crashes in his gaze, raw vulnerability, his shame melting under the affirmation.

You lay down beside him, panting hard as the physical labor catches up to you.

After a few minutes, he coughs to clear his throat, turning to you. “Not a word to anyone.” His voice back to his lieutenant tone.

You chuckle for a second, before realizing he’s serious. “Of course, sir.”

He smiles, as he nuzzles to you, resting his head against your chest.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Just the sound of breathing.

Yours are still heavy and uneven. His are slower, gradually settling as the tension leaves his body in quiet waves. You feel it in the way he presses closer.

Present.

Your hands moves almost instinctively, coming up to rest against his shoulder. Then higher. Careful and slow. Tracing along one of the scars on his face. Just… feeling.

He tenses for a second before easing in. A quiet exhale leaves him, softer than anything you’ve heard from him before.

“…you’re staring again,” he mutters, voice low, but there’s no bite to it.

You pause before responding. “…just making sure you’re still here.”

That earns you a silence. Not an uncomfortable one, but the opposite.

His fingers curl slightly against your side, grip tightening just a fraction, like he’s grounding himself, or maybe grounding you.

“…I am,” he finally says after a moment.

No rank being thrown, nor edge. Just the truth between two men.

Your thumb brushes lightly over his skin again, slower this time. “Good,” you murmur.

He shifts slightly, adjusting so he’s more comfortable against you, head tucked in under your chin. You can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing against your chest now. Your hand rustling his head softly.

“…don’t make this a habit,” he says after a while, his voice still lacking any real warning.

You smile faintly, eyes already half-lidded from exhaustion. “What? Taking care of you?”

A small scoff leaves him, barely audible. “…thinking you can.”

“Too late for that, sir.”

He doesn’t respond. You take his silence as him getting his sleep until…

“Before we sleep, can you grab me a towel or any cloth and wipe your spunk off my face?”

Shit. Right.

a/n: just needed to get this one out of my head after a very tiring midterms week LMAO

Ghost kept flooding my mind every time I tried to study.

#snekky writing #x male reader #x top male reader #cod x reader #cod x male reader #seme male reader #top male reader #call of duty x male reader #call of duty x reader #simon ghost riley x male reader #simon ghost riley x reader

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