gojo my beloved

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You're an assassin

Ghost is too.

The two of you have worked together long enough that most missions feel like muscle memory. You move through a building the same way surgeons move through an operating room. Efficient, controlled, and clean.

Your callsign is Caliber. It started as a joke.

Back when people first saw you shoot, someone muttered that your aim was "ridiculous." Another said it was like watching a machine measure distances in real time. Every shot placed exactly where it needed to be.

High caliber.

The name stuck.

Not just because of the gun skill though. You're precise in everything you do. Measured decisions. Controlled movements. If a job needs someone reliable, someone sharp to handle it without making a mess, your name lands on the list.

High-caliber work. High-caliber professional.

Caliber.

Ghost liked the name immediately.

Not that he said it with enthusiasm of course. Ghost rarely sounds enthusiastic about literally anything. But the first time he used it over comms, there was that slight edge of approval in his voice. And since then, it's been the only name he uses, besides your real name from time to time.

Tonight's job is simple. A woman holed up in a private estate on the outskirts of the city. Old money mansion, with long gravel driveways and too many balconies. The type of mansion that people buy when they want the world to think they're important.

But she isn't important to you. What matters is that she owes the wrong people a lot of money. She's been dodging repayment for months while hiding behind hired muscle. And the client wants her brought in alive. So now you and Ghost are here to collect.

The car engine dies a mile away from the mansion. The rest of the distance you walk. The night air is cold. Quiet except for wind brushing through the trees. The estate sits ahead like a dark silhouette against the sky, tall iron gates standing open just enough to show the long driveway.

Ghost adjusts the rifle slung across his back. "There's guards," he murmurs through the comms.

You spotted them. Two at the gate, another pacing near the front entrance. And one more smoking by a side wall, bored out of his mind.

You raise your rifle, aligning your sight. Distance accounted for. One quiet shot. The bored guard drops before the cigarette hits the ground.

Ghost moves the second your shot lands. You hear the suppressed crack of his weapon twice in quick succession. Two more bodies fall near the gate.

The fourth guard barely has time to turn before Ghost is behind him. A quick chokehold and a sharp twist. Silence returns.

You step over the fallen cigarette. Ghost nudges the body with his boot. "Messy hirin standards," he mutters.

The mansion door wasn't locked for some reason, and you weren't complaining about that. Inside, the place looks worse than you expected. It smells like alcohol and something sour.

Furniture tipped over. Bottles scattered everywhere. Expensive paintings hanging crooked on the walls like nobody's bothered to care in a long time.

Ghost scans the hallway. "Bodyguards'll be inside."

"Obviously."

You guys heard them before you see them. There were two men arguing in another room. Something about money. Something about being paid late.

Ghost glances at you, you waiting for a couple seconds before you nod. He kicks the door open and everything after that takes maybe six seconds.

Gunshots. One man drops instantly and the other tries to reach for his weapon but you're faster. Your bullet lands center mass. Ghost steps over him without a second glance. "Clear."

There was more movement upstairs. Footsteps. A door slamming. You and Ghost move up the staircase together.

Another guard appears at the top landing and ghost shoots him before the man even fully raises his weapon.

The hallway beyond is lined with doors. One of them is half open. You hear hysterical laughing from inside. That must be her.

Ghost kicks the door open. The woman standing in the middle of the room looks nothing like the elegant socialite you saw in the file photo.

Her hair is tangled. Her makeup smeared down her cheeks. There's an empty bottle in one hand and a handgun in the other. She points it at you. "You're fucking late," she says.

Ghost shoots the gun out of her hand. She screams. But thankfully it takes less than a minute to restrain her. She thrashes. Screams threats. Swears she'll have people hunt you down.

Ghost just zip-ties her wrists behind her back and drags her downstairs like luggage. Outside, you pop open the trunk of the car and Ghost tosses her inside. She starts screaming again the moment the lid slams shut. You lock it. The sound becomes muffled instantly.

Ghost dusts his hands off. "Well," he says calmly, "pleasant lady."

You let out a huff. "Client didn't say she was sane."

The job should be done. But contracts like this always come with one extra step. Search the property. Documents. Hard drives. Anything the client might want.

You return to the mansion together. The place feels quieter now. Ghost starts searching the downstairs office while you head deeper into the house. Cabinets. Drawers. Filing folders. Nothing useful yet.

Then you hear something. A faint sound. You pause.There it is again. Crying. Very quiet. Like someone trying not to be heard.

Ghost appears in the hallway behind you. "You hear that?"

You nod slowly. "Yeah."

The crying comes from further down the hall. Ghost's posture stiffens slightly. Confusion more than caution. Neither of you expected that.

You start moving first. Down the hallway. Past another messy room filled with overturned chairs. The sound grows clearer.

It was small. Weak. It leads to a half-closed door and you push it open. The room inside is dim. A small mattress sits on the floor. No bed frame. No blankets except one thin sheet. And curled up in the corner is a kid.

Maybe seven years old? Maybe younger? You weren't sure. Their arms wrap tightly around their knees like they're trying to make themselves disappear.

Their face is bruised. There were old bruises and new ones too. One eye swollen. A split lip barely healed.

They froze when they see you. Fear floods their expression immediately. Like they're expecting the worst thing in the world to walk through that door.

Ghost steps into the doorway behind you. Neither of you say anything. You've seen plenty of ugly things on jobs before. But you've never encountered a child.

The kid flinches when you take a single step closer, making you stop. And for the first time tonight, you genuinely don't know what to do. Your brain runs through options and comes up empty.

You lowered your rifle unknowingly. It hangs loosely in your hand now instead of pointed forward. The kid notices immediately. Their eyes flick down to the weapon, then back to your face, trying to calculate what it means.

You clear your throat. The sound feels weirdly loud in the quiet room. "Uh..."

Smooth start.

You crouch down slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. "Hi little one." Your voice comes out softer than you expected.

Behind you, Ghost hasn't moved from the doorway. He's completely silent. Just watching.

The kid doesn't answer. They're still curled into themselves, arms wrapped tight around their legs like if they let go something terrible might happen.

Up close, the bruises look worse. Finger-shaped marks on their arm. A yellowing bruise along their jaw. You keep your voice gentle. "It's okay," you say quietly. "We're not here to hurt you."

The kid's breathing is shallow. Their eyes flick past you toward the hallway. Toward where their mother would normally be. Then back to you.

You follow their gaze and realize what they're checking.

They're waiting for her to show up. Waiting for punishment. And that made your chest feel weirdly heavy.

You nod your head slightly toward the door behind you. "She can't get to you," you say.

Ghost shifts his weight in the doorway. "You mean the woman screaming in the trunk?" he adds in his usual dry tone.

The kid blinks at that. That sentence clearly didn't process.

Ghost notices the confusion and shrugs a shoulder. "Too much information?"

You shoot him a look, making him lift both hands slightly in surrender. "Tryin."

The kid studies you again. Your gear. Your gloves. The rifle hanging loosely by your side. Then their gaze moves past you to Ghost. Ghost is...not exactly comforting.

Tall. Built like a brick wall. Skull mask staring straight ahead.

The kid's shoulders tense again. You lean slightly to block part of their view of him. "Don't mind him he's not gonna hurt you, Just focus on me," you say gently.

Their eyes return to you. "Can you tell me your name?"

Silence stretches. The kid presses their lips together like they're debating whether speaking is allowed. You stay crouched, patient. No pressure.

Ghost finally breaks the quiet behind you. "Kid might not talk."

You glance back briefly. "Dude."

"Just sayin."

Another few seconds pass. Then, very quietly, the kid whispers something. You lean forward slightly. "What was that?"

Their voice is so soft it barely carries. They repeat their name. You nod slowly. "Okay," you say. "Hi."

The kid watches you like they're still trying to figure out if this is some sort of trick. Your gaze drifts around the room and you realize there were no toys, or even real furniture.

Just a mattress and a cracked window letting cold air slip inside. You look back at them. "Have you been in here the whole time?"

They nod once. Ghost exhales through his nose behind you. It's not loud, but you hear it. You also hear the faint creak of the house settling around you. The mansion suddenly feels a lot bigger. A lot emptier.

You glance toward the hallway. The mission was supposed to end 15 minutes ago. Grab the target. Search the house and swiftly leave.

Instead, you're kneeling on the floor trying to talk to a kid who looks like they've been surviving in a closet.

You rub the back of your neck. Then you try another question. "Are you hurting anywhere?"

The kid hesitates. Then they shrug slightly. Which...isn't really an answer. You sigh softly.

Ghost finally pushes off the doorway and steps into the room. The kid instantly tenses again which he notices. Ghost stops a few feet away instead of getting closer. For a moment he just stands there, looking at the small figure in the corner.

Ghost has seen war zones. Bombed villages. Things most people would never want to imagine. But the expression in his eyes now is different. A quiet kind of anger.

He crouches slightly so he's not towering as much. The skull mask tilts. "Have you been eating?" he asks.

The kid looks confused by the question. That answers enough. Ghost mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like a swear.

You glance at him and he gestures vaguely toward the hallway. "We need to go."

You nod.

Yeah.

You do.

Except...

You look back at the kid.

Still curled up. Still watching both of you like you might disappear the second they blink. Your brain runs through the obvious solution. Leave them. Call someone. Let authorities handle it. That's the normal response.

Except the image that pops into your head is the woman currently screaming in your trunk. The same woman who clearly did this. And the idea of leaving the kid in a house that belongs to her makes your stomach twist.

Ghost seems to reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. Because he sighs. Long and heavy. Then he says the most reluctant sentence you've ever heard come out of his mouth. "...we're not leaving the kid here."

You look at him and he just points at the child with two fingers.

"Client didn't say anything about extra baggage," he mutters.

"Nope."

Ghost runs a hand over the back of his neck. Then he looks at the kid again. "...bloody hell."

The kid watches the two of you like they're witnessing a very confusing argument. You look back at them, then you offer a small, careful smile. "Hey," you say softly. "Do you...want to come with us?"

The kid doesn't answer right away. The room stays quiet. So quiet that you can hear the faint wind outside slipping through the cracked window.

You and Ghost glance at each other. Neither of you say anything, but the look alone says plenty. A silent question. A silent agreement forming without words.

Then the kid nods. "...yes." It's barely louder than a whisper. But at least that that single word settles it.

You look back at Ghost. He stares at the kid for a moment, then exhales slowly like a man realizing the night just got more complicated. You give him a look that says you're not wrong.

You turn back to the kid. "Okay," you say softly. "Alright." You move closer, slow and deliberate so you don't spook them again. "Is it alright if I pick you up?"

They hesitate. Then nod again. So you carefully slide an arm under their legs and another behind their back. The kid is lighter than they should be, way too light for someone their age.

They tense at first, body stiff, but when you stand up and nothing bad happens...they relax a little.

Ghost steps aside so you can move past him. "...this is insane," he murmurs under his breath as you walk into the hallway.

"You're helping," you reply quietly.

"Didn't say I wasn't."

You make your way downstairs, careful on the steps with the extra weight in your arms. The kid keeps their face tucked into your shoulder like they're trying to hide from the entire world.

Ghost opens the front door and the cold night air greets you again. The gravel crunches under your boots as you approach the car. And the moment you get close-

BANG.

BANG BANG BANG.

The trunk rattles violently.

"LET ME OUT YOU BITCHES. I'LL SUE THE HELL OUT OF BOTH OF YOU."

The kid jolts in your arms. Their entire body goes rigid. A small gasp escapes them as the screaming continues from the trunk. Ghost stops mid-step and his shoulders slump. "...for fucks sake."

He hands you the car keys and you slide into the back seat with the kid still in your arms. They're shaking now, eyes wide.

Outside, Ghost walks around the car. He pops the truck open and the woman immediately starts screaming again.

"YOU THINK YOU CAN-"

THUNK.

The yelling cuts off instantly. The trunk slams shut again. and ghost returns to the driver's seat like nothing happened.

You raise an eyebrow. "Problem solved?"

"She'll wake up eventually."

You nod. Fair enough.

The kid is still tense though. Their hands grip the fabric of your shirt. Without thinking, you gently place your palms over their ears. "Hey hey," you murmur quietly. "It's okay." Your voice stays soft.

The car starts moving again as Ghost pulls back onto the road. The kid's breathing slowly begins to calm. You shift slightly so they're more comfortable in your lap. One hand stays over their ears for a while longer just in case the trunk occupant decides to wake up early.

Your other hand lightly rubs small circles on their back. It's awkward. You've never done this before. But eventually the kid's grip on your shirt loosens. Their breathing slows and their head droops against your shoulder.

Ghost glances at the rearview mirror. "...they asleep?"

You nod. "Yeah."

He grunts quietly. "Good."

The rest of the drive is mostly silent. Eventually the city lights start appearing again. The exchange point is an old warehouse near the docks. Neutral ground. Quiet. The kind of place where nobody asks questions.

Ghost parks the car and gets out again. You stay in the car with the sleeping kid while he drags the trunk open again.

The woman wakes up at exactly the wrong moment. Ghost yanks her out of the trunk. The shouting fades as he drags her toward the warehouse entrance.

A few minutes later he signals you inside. You carry the kid carefully. Inside, the client waits with two security guys nearby.

The exchange goes smoothly. Money. Confirmation codes. A few quiet details about the target. The woman is handed over, still yelling insults at everyone in the room.

Your job is technically finished. But before you leave, you glance down at the kid sleeping against your chest. "Hey, what about them?" you ask.

The client looks over. He Frowns slightly then just shrugs. "Not part of the contract."

Ghost crosses his arms. "They're her kid."

"Then they'll probably end up in the system," the client says casually. "Assuming authorities find them."

You and Ghost exchange a look. Yeah. That answer was expected. Still irritating though. You leave the warehouse with the same problem you walked in with. The kid.

Next stop is a place Ghost knows. A small community building that handles emergency placements for children. Late-night calls, temporary housing, that sort of thing.

A tired worker answers the door when you arrive. She looks between the two of you. The tactical gear. The skull mask. Then the sleeping child. "...long night?" she says.

"You could say that," Ghost replies.

You then explained the situation. The woman. The house. The condition you found the kid in. The worker listens quietly. Then she sighs "...yeah. That's going to take paperwork. Investigations. Temporary foster arrangements."

Ghost looks unimpressed. "How long?"

"Hard to say..."

You glance down at the kid again. Still asleep. Still clutching your shirt. The worker notices that too then looks at you. Then at Ghost.

Something thoughtful crosses her face. "You know," she says slowly, "there is another option."

Both you and Ghost look up. "What option?" you ask.

She shrugs casually. "You could just take them."

Silence. Complete silence.

Ghost blinks. "You're joking."

"Why would I be joking?"

"You want two contract killers to raise a child?"

The worker tilts her head. "You two brought them here instead of leaving them in that house."

You and Ghost glance at each other again. "...fair point," he mutters. Still, confusion is written all over both your faces. "But we don't know how to take care of a kid," you say.

"And we're both men," Ghost adds.

The worker bursts out laughing. "Oh my god."

She waves a hand. "That part isn't a problem. Kids can absolutely have two dads."

Ghost looks like someone just handed him an unsolved puzzle.

The worker gestures between you two. "Besides, one of you can take the more nurturing role if you want. The other can be the 'don't run with scissors' dad."

Ghost slowly turns his head toward you. You stare right back. The worker watches the silent exchange with amusement. Then she grins. "Besides, you two already look like a cute couple anyway."

That made Ghost froze and you nearly choke. And in your arms, the kid is still sleeping peacefully through the entire conversation.

For a moment the room is just quiet.You clear your throat. "...we're not a couple."

Ghost nods once, very firmly.

The worker stares at both of you. Like the information just doesn't compute. "Wait really?"

You shift the kid slightly so they're more comfortable in your arms. "What do you mean really? YES, really."

Ghost folds his arms. "We just work together."

"That's it," you add.

The worker blinks. Then coughs lightly into her hand, clearly trying to recover. "Right. Of course."

There's a pause. "...huh." She looks between the two of you again like she's still mentally rearranging something that made more sense five seconds ago.

Then she straightens up and waves a hand like she's physically pushing the topic away. "Okay. Never mind that." Her expression turns more serious. "So are you two going to take this child or not?"

That changes the atmosphere immediately. Ghost shifts his weight slightly and your eyes drift down to the kid again.

"...this is ridiculous," he mutters quietly.

"You said that earlier."

"I meant it then too."

The worker waits patiently.

"You said the system would take them," you say.

She nods. "Yes. Eventually."

"Eventually...?" Ghost repeats.

"Temporary placements, investigations, social workers... it takes time."

Ghost rubs the back of his neck. That's never a good sign. You've worked with him long enough to recognize when his brain is actively trying to escape a situation.

"So what you're saying," he says slowly, "is the kid bounces around places until someone decides where they end up."

"...that can happen, yes."

Ghost sighs. Long and heavy. You glance at him and you see him staring at the floor like it personally offended him. Then he looks at the kid again. Still asleep.

The worker watches the two of you with quiet curiosity."So," she says gently, "what's it going to be?"

You shift the kid again slightly. They mumble something in their sleep but don't wake. Your chest tightens a little.

You've handled guns since you were young. Handled missions most people wouldn't survive. But somehow this tiny person sleeping in your arms feels more complicated than any of that.

Ghost glances at you. "...Caliber."

You meet his eyes.

That's the look he uses when he's asking something without saying it out loud.

You sigh softly. Your thumb lightly brushes their arm without thinking. "...we'd have to figure things out," you say slowly.

The worker tilts her head. "That sounds like a yes."

Ghost looks like he wants to argue with the concept of reality. Instead he sighs again. Then gestures vaguely at the kid. "They already came with us this far."

You glance at him and he just shrugs slightly. "...seems a bit rude to stop now."

The worker smiles a little. "Well." She pulls a clipboard from the nearby desk. "In that case, we'll start with some paperwork."

Ghost stares at the clipboard. Not at the worker. Not at you. But the clipboard, like it's the most offensive thing he's seen all night.

Which, considering the mission involved a screaming lunatic in a trunk and a mansion full of armed goons, is honestly impressive. "...paperwork?" he says slowly.

The worker smiles the kind of smile that means she absolutely is not joking. "Yup." She flips a few pages and hands it over.

Ghost doesn't take it. He just looks at it. Then at her. Then back at the clipboard again.

"Come on Ghost," you say quietly.

He doesn't move.

"Simon."

"...I heard you the first time."

"Take the damn clipboard."

Ghost sighs like the weight of the world just landed on his shoulders. Finally he grabs it. He glances down at the first page. Then flips it. Then flips another. His head slowly lifts. "...this is ten pages."

The worker shrugs. "Welcome to childcare."

Ghost looks like he might pass out. "You expect us to fill all of this out."

"Yes."

"At three in the morning."

"Yes."

Ghost rubs a hand down his face. "...Caliber."

You already know what's coming. "No."

"You didn't even hear the question."

"I know the question."

He turns the clipboard toward you. "You're better with details."

You raise an eyebrow. "You're older."

"So?"

"Still counts."

The worker watches this exchange with clear amusement. "Technically," she says helpfully, "either of you can fill it out."

Ghost immediately holds the clipboard toward you again. You stare at it. Then at him. "...coward." You sigh.

The kid shifts slightly in your arms again, still asleep but starting to get heavier the longer you hold them. Your arm is beginning to complain about it.

You glance down at the child. Then back at Ghost. You gently shift the kid and step closer. "Hold this."

Before Ghost can question it, you carefully place the sleeping child into his arms. Ghost freezes instantly, clipboard dipping in his other hand.

Ghost now stands there holding a small sleeping kid like someone just handed him a live grenade. His arms are stiff. His posture is stiff. Honestly his entire body looks like it's trying not to move in case something breaks.

You pick up the clipboard while he's busy processing the situation. Ghost looks down at the kid. "...what am I supposed to do with this."

"Hold them."

"I am holding them."

"You look like you're defusing a bomb."

Ghost glances down again. The kid is curled slightly against his chest, still completely asleep. Their small hand ends up grabbing the front of his jacket. Ghost slowly adjusts his grip. Carefully. Very very carefully.

One arm supports their back. The other under their legs like he's seen people do before. "Is this right?"

You glance up from the paperwork. "You're asking the wrong person."

The worker leans against the desk watching the whole thing like it's the best entertainment she's had all week. "Yeah," she says casually, "that's not bad."

Ghost looks mildly offended. "Not bad."

"For someone who clearly has never held a child before, yes. Just relax. Kids aren't made of glass."

Ghost looks down at the bruises still visible on the kid's arm. "This one might be."

You ignore them both and keep filling out the paperwork. The pen scratches across the page while the room settles into a quieter rhythm.

Name.

Temporary guardian.

Emergency contact.

Address.

You pause slightly at that one.

Ghost's place. Your place. Both of them are...a secret. So write a fake one down. Across the room Ghost is still standing there with the kid in his arms, staring down at them like they might suddenly wake up and start giving orders.

The child shifts slightly again. Ghost instinctively adjusts his hold this time, a little smoother than before.

A minute passes. Then another. The last page waits in front of you. You read over the lines quickly. Guardian signature. You hesitate for exactly one second before signing your name.

The pen clicks. You place it down on the desk and slide the clipboard back to the worker. "There."

She picks it up and scans through the pages. A small smile spreads across her face. "Well," she says, setting it down again. "Looks like it's official."

Ghost looks over. "What's official."

She nods toward the sleeping child in his arms. "For now, at least."

You glance over at them too. Their face is relaxed. No tension or fear. Just sleep. Probably the first calm sleep they've had in a while.

"Caliber."

"Yeah?"

"We just adopted a child."

You lean back slightly against the desk. "Yeah, but it's only temporarily."

Ghost stares at the kid. Then sighs.

The worker grabs her keys from the desk again. "Alright, dads."

Both you and Ghost immediately look up. "We are not-"

She waves you off. "Sure, sure." Then she gestures toward the door. "Now go get your kid some things before morning hits."

Ghost glances down at the child again. Their small hand is still gripping his jacket. He doesn't try to move it.

You push yourself off the desk and walk toward the door. Ghost follows a second later, a lot slower than usual so he doesn't wake the kid.

The night air outside is colder than before. Ghost hands opens the car door carefully while you slide into the driver's seat.

Before getting in himself, he looks down at the kid one more time. Then he climbs into the back seat with them.

You start the engine, and the worker taps on the window. You roll it down slightly. "Good luck," she says.

“That’s enough Sergeant,” and you immediately stop your advance. Hands drop to your knees as you suck in air, breathing hard through your mouth. Your lungs burn. Your head pounds. Blood rushing in your ears while your body struggles to steady itself.

Looking up you see your captain, Price, walking slowly towards you. Having an amused look etched on his face, like he’s surprised you didn’t managed to pass out in the middle of his punishment. But he doesn’t know how far you’re willing to go, just for him.

“You okay there, Sergeant?” his voice muses as he finally reached in front of you, arms crossed.

“Never better, sir,” you say, still trying to catch your breath, as you try to stand straight, saluting to your captain.

He continued to stare down at your form.

Gaze drifting downwards.

One eyebrow lifts.

Right. You’re rock hard.

It was his fault really.

Your hotheadedness became the norm as soon as you joined his team. He knows your heart is always in the right place, but your act-first-think-later attitude constantly draws attention from the other officers. Due to this, he constantly needed to ‘punish’ you by making you run laps around the base.

After this, he always guides you back to his office for ‘counseling’ sessions, that’s what the others always think what happens inside Price’s office. Boy, they couldn’t be further than the truth.

Because that counseling session? Is you getting edged for hours as he tries to coo you into lasting longer.

So, you’re not sorry your body acts like Pavlov’s recent experiment anymore.

This time, you punched a higher-up, on the same level of authority with Price, all because you heard the man bad mouthing your team. You were fine being scolded or being the talk because of your attitude. But you draw the line when they start talking shit of your team. And they did, as soon as you heard them insulting Price for ‘not having full control of his own team’ you couldn’t let that slander escape unpaid.

So, a punch landed. Then another.

He stumbled back, caught completely off guard. His arms came up to shield his face while you kept swinging, the other officers scrambling to drag you off him.

You only stopped because you heard Price’s booming voice shouting for your name. Minutes later, you were running around base… again.

Your flashbacking get cuts off as Price’s hand lands on your shoulder. His eyes already asking you to follow him, and you did. Still tired, you tried your best to catch up, as your legs complained.

As soon as you reached the entrance to his office, he stopped. Opening the door and wanting you to enter first. The moment both of your feet were inside, you got pushed. Body still aching from the running, you let him guide to his own office chair.

“What was it this time?” he asked as he remove his belt, the leather snapping at his own palm.

You tsked. “He was dragging your name to the ground,” you pout, your words didn’t carry any venom anymore. But your heart thumps faster as he bends down beside you to get ropes from the lowest drawer.

He chuckled at your excuse. “Really? This the 5th time that happened?”

“6th” you corrected him.

That made him chuckle even more. “For something that happens a lot of times. I’m starting to think you’re into this, Sergeant,” he teases as he started to tie your hands to his office chair.

Your heart beats louder as he sat on your lap as he tied the other. Your cock nestling deep within the confines of his soft ass, warming your cock awake.

“Your fault,” you managed to reply

Another chuckle escapes from his mouth, vibrating against your body as he shifted his weight on your lap. The ropes bit into your wrists, reminding you of your restrained movement as you feel how tight and firm his knots are. His ass pressing down harder, grinding just enough to make your cock twitch beneath the fabric of your pants.

He knew exactly what he was doing, he always did. That smug glint in his eye as he straighten up, towering over you even more while still perched on your thighs.

“My fault, eh?” he says, voice thick with faux innocence. One hand trailed up to your chest, fingers hooking into the collar of your uniform shit and yanking it open with a sharp tug. “You’re the one who can’t keep his fists to himself,” another shift of his weight, your cock getting squeezed further. “Or your cock, apparently.”

You swallowed hard, your breath still rough from the laps, only this time, it was for an entirely different reason.

The air in the office felt thicker, charged with the scent of sweat and leather. Price leaned in close, his moustache brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Should we strip him down, Sergeant? Can you do it for me?”

Your hands struggled against the ropes, but they held fast. “Sir-”

“Quiet.” The command was sharp, slicing through your protest like a knife.

He slid off your lap, kneeling between your spread legs. Fingers worked at your belt, unbuckling it before popping the button on your pants. As soon as the zipper went down, he peeled your pants and underwear away, freeing your aching cock. It sprang up, hard and leaking pre-cum onto your stomach.

Price’s gaze locked onto it, his lips curling into a predatory smile. “Look at you. Already dripping for me,” he wrapped his calloused hand around your shaft, giving it a slow, firm stroke from the base to the tip. “Pathetic.” But there was no real venom in his tone, only hunger.

Your hips bucked involuntarily, who wouldn’t, chasing the feeling, but the clamped his other hand on your thigh, pinning you in place.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he warned, thumb circling around the head of your cock, smearing the slickness of your pre around. “You don’t move unless I say so. This is your punishment, remember? For thinking you can fight my battles.”

You bit your lip, nodding as heat flooded your face. The ropes scratched your skin again as you tested them again, the burn in your muscles, nothing but a distant echo compared to the fire building in your groin.

Price pumped you once, twice, his grip tightening just enough to make stars burst behind your eyelids. Pleasure coiled tight, your balls drawing up as the edge rushed towards you.

Then… he stopped… fully stopped.

Hand withdrawing completely, leaving your cock throbbing in the cool air. You groaned, head falling back against the chair. “Captain, please-”

“Please, what, boy?” he stood, unbuttoning his own shirt with unhurried precision. The fabric disappearing revealing the broad expanse of his chest, dusted with dark hair, muscles honed from years in the military. He shrugged the shirt off, tossing it aside, then kicked off his boots. “Think you deserve to cum already? After losing your shit like a rookie?”

He stepped closer, removing his pants next. Cock hung heavy between his legs, thick and half-hard. You stared, mouth watering despite the frustration gnawing at you.

Price noticed, of course he did, he always did. Grabbing your jaw, he forced your eyes up to meet his. “Eyes on me, Sergeant,” his thumb brushes against the side of your lower lip. “You’re here to learn control. Not to gawk.”

But his actions contradicted his words in the most delicious way possible. He straddled your lap again, this time bare skin on skin. His cock dragged along yours as he settled, the heat of him searing. You felt his hole clench teasingly against your length, not taking you in yet, no, just hovering… taunting.

“Feel that?” he murmured, rocking his hips in a slow… teasing grind. “That’s what good behavior gets you. But you… you get this. My rules, my pace. Say it now.”

Your rules, sir,” you gasped, voice strained.

He bound your ankles next, ropes looping around the legs of the chair to spread you wide, immobilizing you completely. Now you were fully at his mercy. And your cock twitched hard at the thought.

Price circled the chair like a wolf assessing prey, his fingers trailing over your exposed skin. He pinched a nipple, twisting until you gasped, then soothed it with his tongue, lapping wetly.

“You take hits for me out there,” he said between licks, his voice a low growl, “but in here, you take what I give. And you’ll thank me every second. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” you rasped, your cock jerking untouched, begging for more attention.

Satisfied, he dropped to his knees between your legs again. His breath ghosted over your length before his mouth descended. Hot, wet suction enveloped you, his tongue swirling around the head as he took you deep. You thrust up, but the ropes held you fast, forcing you to endure the slow up and down of his head.

He hummed, the vibration shooting straight to your core, building that pressure again. His free hand gripped your base, squeezing to control the build-up, denying you even the illusion of control.

Price worked you relentlessly, hollowing his cheeks, one hand cupping your balls and rolling them gently while the other pinned your hip down. You were close… so close… your vision blurring as your orgasm slowly reached its peak again. And just like before, he pulled off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting his lips to your throbbing cock.

“FUCK!” the curse tore from your throat, frustration boiling over.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, standing with a smirk that bordered on cruelness.

“Language, Sergeant. That’s another lap next time. And don’t think I won’t add to this session for that slip.” But his eyes darkened with lust as he watched you writhe.

Climbing back on your lap, he positioned himself, sinking down slowly this time. Inch by inch, he took you in, his ass clenching around your cock like a vice. The stretch was magnificent, his walls hot and gummy, milking you as he just bottomed out.

You both groaned in unison. Price rolled his hips, grinding down, but he set a torturously slow pace. Lifting up until the tip of your eager cock remained, then sliding back down until it all gets wrapped his warm walls again. Each movement dragged against every sensitive nerve, pushing you toward the brink without mercy. His hands braced on your shoulders, nails digging in as he controlled every thrust, dictating the rhythm with iron precision.

“Captain… I can’t…” your voice broke, pleas spilling out as sweat beaded on your forehead.

“You can, and you will.” He grabbed your chin again, forcing you to watch as he rode you. His cock bounced against his stomach and yours, leaking steadily as your dick continued to assault his spot, but he ignored it, focused solely on your torment. Walls spasming around you each time you grit back, trying to not cut your fucking short.

Faster now, his ass slapping against your thighs, the obscene sounds filling the office, you felt it building harder, more intense, unstoppable, your body tensing.

He stopped. Lifted off completely once more, your cock slipping free with a slick sound. Empty and aching, you tried to bucked against nothing, a sob escaping you.

“Good boy,” Price praised, stroking your cheek almost tenderly, but his grip tightened around your throat, a reminder of who held the power. “See? You’re learning. But we’re not done. Not by a long shot.” He untied one of your hands briefly, only to be repositioned raised beside your head, then rebound it tighter.

Now he pressed his body flush against yours, his cock sliding between your stomachs as he rutted lazily. His mouth claimed yours in a bruising kiss, tongue fucking into you with the same dominance he wielded everywhere else, teeth nipping your lower lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood.

“To… to learn control,” you panted, because it’s the only thing you could do right now, every word a struggle.

He then breaks off the kiss, and trailed bites down to your neck, marking you where the collar would hide them.

“Tell me why you’re here,” he demanded, nipping at your collarbone, his voice a commanding rumble. While he sat on your cock, only letting his walls clench and unclench around your cock.

“And?”

“To take it for you. For the team.”

Satisfied with the answer you’ve given. He rewarded you by lifting his ass a little bit, his hand grabbing the exposed length of your cock, stroking firmly. While the rest is still inside of him. Up and down… removing your cock fully, reaching further up around his back as he twisted at the end, his thumb pressing into the slit. The pleasure was blinding, your hips straining futilely. Your mind begging for release as it continues to be denied the satisfaction.

“That’s right. My hotheaded little Sergeant. Always loyal. But loyalty means obedience. Say it.”

“I’m obedient, sir,” you whimpered, the word tasting like surrender.

He edged you three or more times like that… from his hands, mouth, and ass… each denial more agonizing than the last. Your body trembled, muscles screaming from the tension, pre-cum pooling on your stomach. Tears started to prick your eyes, but you didn’t beg. No, not yet. You wanted to prove you could endure, for him.

“Hold it,” he’d snap when you teetered close again, his fingers pinching the base of your cock to stave off release. “Not until I say. You’re mine to break. Remember that, Sergeant.” Your cock throbbing like crazy, veins popping under his grip as he feels more blood pump into it.

On the next edge, he rode you deep and hard, his ass gripping you like a fist, your mouth agape as rough moans and groans escapes from you.

Then, a sharp knock echoed through the office. Your heart seized, eyes widening in panic. Price froze mid-thrust, your cock buried to the hilt inside him, the sudden halt made it throb inside him more.

His hand clamped over your mouth instantly, silencing the moans you’ve been letting out. His eyes locked on yours, fierce and warning… stay quiet.

“Captain Price?” came a muffled voice from the other side of the door. Some random sergeant, by the sound of it, probably delivering reports or some mundane base update. “You in there, sir? Need to drop off the briefing files”

Price’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t pull off you. Instead, he ground down subtly, just enough to make your overworked and oversensitive cock throb inside him some more, sending sparks of ‘unwanted’ pleasure through your nerves.

You bit down on his palm to stifle a gasp. It wouldn’t be difficult to be in this position, had it not been Price’s walls insistence of continuing to spasm around you, like he’s milking you subconsciously.

Before he clicked off, as if to retort back to his teasing, you released a moan, still muffled but you bet the random Sergeant heard it. Price, of course, caught this move.

He leaned forward, his free hand reaching on the intercom without dismounting. “Not now, Sergeant,” Price’s voice came out steady, authoritative, but you could feel the strain in how his thighs quivered against yours.

Him reaching out made his hips roll once, but you know this was deliberate because it was the same painful, shallow, thrust he gave you earlier. Punishing your vulnerability. Your eyes watered, the overstimulation from the edging and the thrill of someone finding out made every tiny movement feel like fire. “Leave it with the adjutant. Come back in an hour.”

There was a pause, the Sergeant hesitating. “Sir? Everything alright? I thought I heard-”

“Dismissed,” Price cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument, the captain’s command laced with steel. He released the button, his hand still muffling your whimpers as the footsteps retreated down the hall. Only when a few moments later, making sure the random Sergeant was gone did he remove his palms, replacing it with his mouth in a hard, silencing kiss.

“You fucking idiot, that was a close call,” he murmured against your lips, not stopping the subtle grinds. You only smile, a sense of small pride within you as you just made you captain curse.

“You almost gave us away with that noise. For that, you get no mercy now.” This was it, what you’ve been waiting for.

His eyes burned with intensified heat, the thrill of the interruption fueling him. He started to move again, faster, harder, his ass slamming down on your cock without a pause.

The overstimulation hit you like a wave. Your recent edges had left you raw, every thrust sending jolts of too-much pleasure-pain through your shaft. You writhed within the ropes, oversensitive nerves screaming as he chased his own release, ignoring your pleas.

“Captain…. Too… much-” you gasped but he only laughed, low and dark.

“That’s the point. You take it until I say stop now.” He wrapped a hand around his own cock, stroking roughly as he bounced and bounced, the click sounds of skin on skin echoing louder now that the threat was gone. His free hand pinched your nipple again, twisting harder, adding layers to the overload.

You came first, the overstimulation forcing your orgasm without warning. Your cock pulsed inside him, spilling hot cum deep into his ass, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. He rode through it, his walls continued to clench, to milk every drop, dragging out the spasms until they bordered on pain.

“That’s one,” he growled, his voice rough with his own building climax. “But we’re going again.”

Tears streamed down your face, the sensitivity making each upward stroke agony-laced ecstasy. He wrapped his arms around your neck. Adjusted to angle deeper, hitting that sweet spot inside him that made him groan. Your body shook, cock still hard from the denial and now trapped in the vice of his body.

Whispering commands from his lips to your ears. “Don’t you fucking dare go soft on me, boy. I’m gunna squeeze my ass around that thick cock of yours…” Fuck, it was so hot hearing him curse because of you. “Make it throb- Yes, like that… Good boy.” He came with a guttural curse, his release shooting across your chest in thick ropes, marking you.

But even as he shuddered through it, he kept moving, grinding down to force your overspent cock to respond.

Your second orgasm built painfully slow, your body protesting every clench and every slide. “Please, sir… cant-” you begged, voice hoarse from the overuse.

“You can. For me, ye?” His hand found your balls again, tugging gently but insistently, pushing you over despite the burn.

You came again, weaker this time, dry heaves of pleasure wracking you as minimal seed leaked into him. Price finally stilled, panting, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Proud of you,” he murmured, the praise milking one last throb from you inside of him. His dominating presence softening into aftercare mode. When he stood up, a loud plop could be heard as his ass leaked your load.

He untied the ropes slowly, massaging the red welts on your wrists and ankles, his touch gentle now. Cleaning you both with wipes from his drawer, he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Good boy. Took it all. My perfect Sergeant.”

You sagged in the chair, spent and trembling from the overload, body humming with residual shocks. “Worth every punch, sir. And every second.”

Price chuckled, helping you up and steadying you as your legs wobbled. “Don’t make me regret it. Next time, we push further, and you lasted longer before you first came. And keep your mouth shut if there’s another knock.”

“I won’t make promises, sir,” you laughed as you gathered your clothes. Slowly dressing yourself until you’re decent again.

You pause halfway through pulling your shirt back on.

“…Wait.”

Price doesn’t look up from fixing his belt.

“Captain… did you make me run laps just so I’d last longer?”

He finally glances over at you.

That smug look again.

“Dismissed, Sergeant.”

The door shuts in your face before you can protest.

“Captain, wait-” you knocked, “CAPTAIN-”

“I said you’re dismissed, Sergeant”

Fucking hell can’t believe I just did cardio training so I can last longer when we fuck.

-

a/n: A bday gift for @daydaydayrk420, hopefully you like it-

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