A palm smacked across your cheek; the sting brought you back to consciousness. Screwing your eyes up, you tried to settle them in your skull so that you could take in your surroundings. Your hands and legs tied to a chair was what you noticed first. A fold-out table was a few feet out of reach in front of you.

Then, beyond that, a sliver of light in the roof – a hole, not a light bulb – dropped onto a body, bound like yourself and twenty feet away. The carved mask hiding the face was illuminated.

Your body wrenched against your restraints, “Hey!”

Another slap silenced you. You looked up at the offender you had somehow looked over. A lackey. No one you recognised from any intel or manilla folder or briefing, so you surveyed their appearance for just how much this soldier was trusted with.

Single gun on one hip.

KA-BAR on the other.

Kevlar vest that was more slack on the right shoulder.

More weapons that you had, now that your arsenal had been torn from you.

With the clanging of metal, a rectangle of light broke into the room. Room felt like the wrong word. This was too empty, echoey to be a mere room. A silhouette appeared in that light then vanished as the door closed behind them. Footsteps, slow and steady, approaching you, and the lackey left your side.

Ronin Foster bent at the waist to meet your unwilling gaze. He looked almost identical to the photo you’d been given in your briefing about him. One difference was clear: the burn mark running parallel to the left side of his chin. You couldn’t fathom where or how he’d gotten that injury, nor did you have a lot of time to look at it before Foster turned silently and unrolled a sleeve of weapons onto the table.

You caught Ghost’s eyes, the whites stark against the shadows and black paint. He didn’t avoid your gaze. He held it, and even when Foster stepped in the way, you felt that conflicted comfort you had grown to know in the presence of your Lieutenant and his masks.

The rest of the 141 were possibly being held elsewhere. Or they could’ve made it out. But it would take days to reconvene and organise a rescue mission.

This was your new home.

Your training did not desert you as your captor removed his gloves, tugging at the fingers to free them. One reached behind him and withdrew from his belt a gun.

Following the arc of his arm’s swing, his body wrenched around. A slash of agony struck your forehead against the butt of his gun. Your ears rung around the hollow of your skull like the bells of Notre Dame. The room wobbled as you righted your head. You couldn’t make out the details in Ghost’s mask anymore, not as Foster pulled off the skull plate and tossed it aside. Its clattering on the ground punctuated the air. Your gaze wavered against the dizzying disorientation as Ghost writhed to get away. But Foster was still unrolling the balaclava off his face. The second you saw a hint of Ghost’s chin, your eyes snapped shut.

Boots strode across the concrete. Suddenly your chin was grabbed up, no doubt facing your captor. Ghost’s gruff grunts boomed across the gap between you as he struggled against his restraints – that’s what you presumed, your eyes still closed.

But Foster was ignoring that side of the room blatantly, his grip crushing your cheekbones like he could wrench it off and throw it alongside Ghost’s mask. You narrowed your breaths to control yourself. While you couldn’t see, you couldn’t predict what could happen. But your defiance refused to let this awful man dictate when you saw Ghost’s face for the first time.

“Who told you about this place?” Foster asked quietly.

Nothing was heard from Ghost now, besides his breathing. You tried to match yours to his, pressing your lips together, your nostrils flaring against the throbbing pain.

Sharp pain splintered through your big toe, up your right foot. Your body fought the restraints and channelled your masked yelps into the bindings. Slowly, your chest puffed out all the air before sucking some back in.

“You’ve got at least nine more chances to tell me,” and Foster tapped his weapon – presumably the butt of his gun - against the rest of your toes. “Now tell me, how did you find this place?”

Between internal screams, you prayed that Ghost wouldn’t give up, and that his presence would give you the strength to do the same.

-----------------------------------------------

“Gambit, you still with me?”

You let out a hum, since it was all that your throat would allow. A sigh emitted from your Lieutenant. You couldn’t tell if it was relief or remorse. Sure, Ghost cared for you. You were on his team; it was in his job description to give the bare minimum amount of shits about you. However you could only hope that he gave as many as you did him. Or maybe now you hoped he didn’t, so that the mental barrier holding back the intel didn’t break so soon – or at all.

Your eyebrows raised and scrunched to stretch your face, but your eyes remained shut. Ghost hadn’t said a word about his mask being replaced and you doubted that Foster been kind enough to replace it between sessions.

The sound of the door opening reached you again; you could tell by the pattern of the foot fall that it was Foster. So, you cracked a joke in your head, that you were privileged that a terrorist with a notoriously busy schedule had made way for you and Ghost.

The laughter in your head was cut off when a fist yanked at the roots of your hair, forcing you to face the ceiling. Your eyes winced but still did not-

“Open.”

You waited for Foster’s response to your inaction.

A gloved hand suddenly grappled with your jaw, which was as clenched as your eyelids.

“Your mouth. Open it.”

Eventually, Foster managed to get it open long enough to pour something in. You choked on the first splash but began glugging it down once you realised that it was water and that Foster wasn’t pinching your nose. This wasn’t waterboarding. This was survival – extending your torture to reap its potential benefits. Thus you didn’t savour any of it nor save any to spit back in Foster’s face. Your torturer threw your head aside, strain twinging up your neck. A few seconds later, you could hear similar sounds – Ghost’s turn. That other benefit of not having to see whatever Foster was doing to Ghost. Unfortunately, your shoulders could not reach high enough to shield your ears.

A scrape from the table told you Foster had brought back his tools. Last time he was here, he’d tried to use them on Ghost. However since you weren’t opening your eyes, the effect was not as intended. As a reflex, you attempted to dissociate. One might think the injuries and blood loss might make it easier to fade away from your body. But no, the pain grounded you in your body. So it only made things worse when you found your jaw getting wrenched at again.

“Let them go!” boomed Ghost, causing your heart to ripple against your ribs. Him showing an ounce of care scared you more than Foster did. It meant something worse than before was coming and you were both getting close to breaking.

A bang shattered against your ear drums; the darkness before your eyelids grew a tad bit brighter. Your neck was sharply encircled by Foster’s arm, and your chin struggled against the crook of his elbow. Airway trapped, you were immobilised and drowning on dry land. The grip on you tightened, squeezing your eyes out of their sockets but still you held strong. If this was the last thing you did, you would not betray your friend.

The shouting began, all blended together, overwhelming your fractured mind. It grew and grew into a crescendo of bellows that shrilled with its urgency. Your mind bubbled at the edges a

Then it stopped. A snap. Foster’s weight dropped onto you. Something metal clattered onto the floor. Wet dribbled down your neck.

Thunderous absence of noise surrounded you, your weak attempts to suck in a deep breath barely a prickle in it. You hunched under Foster’s weight. There was no energy left to make a pitiful attempt to dissuade him. You were so encompassed by it that you failed to notice the approaching footsteps right up until you felt the air punctuated into your cheek by this new person’s presence.

A hand wiped at your forehead, lifting gently as it went.

“Gambit, you with me?”

You let out a sigh crossed with a laugh, “Gaz?”

Gaz replied with a chuff of relief, “Let’s get you home.”

The weight on your shoulders was yanked aside; your wrists felt an inch of relief as the plastic bindings were severed. There was din all around again: radio chatter, mumbled remarks about the location, and echoes around the concrete.

You tried raising your head to see “Ghost?”

“I’m here,” and his voice was oh so close now, “I’m here. You’re ok.”

Then you felt the binds on your wrists slacken completely. Your body tipped forwards and your head knocked into someone else’s.

“Gotcha.”

Ghost’s.

“You can open your eyes.”

Your grimy, sweat-stained skin rubbed harshly against his as he instructed you to open your eyes. Your whimper could not be contained as you shook your head:

“No. I don’t want to.”

“You need to open your eyes, Gambit.”

“Your face,” Your arm wavered, preventing you from emphasising your point, “I can’t.” And your body slouched further into him. True darkness took over the edges of your eyelids. The last thing you recalled was being caught by three hands and someone saying your name – not your callsign, but your name.

-----------------------------------------------

Your feet were in bandages, bones reset, though amputation was not out of the questions just yet. Turns out three days with sprains, breaks, and no toenails were not beneficial to you. It was a good thing that you had been carried to the helicopter and not made to walk

Stiff with lack of use, you deduced, and you didn’t try to wiggle them as you opened up your eyes. The bulbs above your bed burnt your sight; you winced away from them. Curtains surrounded your bed. They protected you from the shame you might’ve felt had anyone seen the state you were in. With a sigh, you willed yourself to sink into the mattress a little deeper and return to slumber.

However a set of approaching footsteps caught your ears. Then a gloved hand peeled back one of the curtains to reveal Ghost, his other arm still in a sling that was stark white against his normal gear and the basic black balaclava that was back where it belonged.

“Gambit,” he said, hesitating in the gap between the curtains before drawing them.

You went to say his alias, but you were halted by a sudden coughing fit. Your throat had decided now was a good time to curl up into sandpaper. At your side, Ghost held the cup to your lips. Your weak hands tried to take over holding it; Ghost’s firm ones curled around yours steady. His gloves were worn and rough like the calloused skin beneath, warm against your feeble fingers.

Once the coughing fit had abated, Ghost sat back in the chair adjacent to your bed whilst not quite making eye contact with you. Normally, he had no issues staring you down. Perhaps he had been worried about you.

Sniffing behind his mask, Ghost said, “You did good not giving up that intel.”

A compliment. He must have been really worried about you.

“As did you, sir.”

His eyes wavered towards the passing clogs beneath the dividing curtain as a medic passed by your section. Remaining rigid, he adjusted the inside of his hoodie pocket before speaking again.

“You should’ve opened your eyes. It might’ve helped you with Foster.”

“He’d’ve seen how I reacted to you. Gauged better how to get us to give up.”

How to get me to give up, you thought.

You continued quickly, “It’s better that he just had you. You’re better at controlling yourself than me.”

Ghost was silent for a while, and you were too. It was only a tad uncomfortable; you chalked it up to your injuries, your elbows being the only thing that really felt relief in this hospital bed. Perhaps that was what compelled you to explain him your reasoning further.

“I didn’t want to see you if you didn’t want me to.”

“You’ve seen my face before.”

“Hardly.” That was true for the most part. All you’d allowed yourself to see was one hell of a chin when Ghost lifted his mask up to eat or drink something in a mess hall. You concluded, “Showing your face is your call, Ghost. Not Foster’s or mine or anyone’s.”

His shoulders rose and fell with a deep sigh. Then Ghost grabbed the neck and peeled his mask up in one smooth motion, his chin on his chest. A shock of dirty blond hair – an inch of it pure white at the roots – was flattened against his scalp, until Ghost’s fingers combed through it twice. It matched his dainty eyelashes.

He looked back up at last. Your sight was stuck mainly on his eyes, still surrounded by their superhero mask painted onto his skin where the holes in his mask had been. Then you started making concentric circles around his face. Scars cut from the corners of his lips through his cheeks. Little ones dotted about his prominent nose, eyebrows, forehead, lips. A few bruises highlighted where Foster had gotten him.

You realised that you were staring with your lips parted and eyes wide so that you could commit his face to memory. But you couldn’t help yourself either.  

In short, your suspicions were confirmed: he was goddamn gorgeous.

He was just about to hide it away again, his matching skeleton gloves going to pull down his balaclava when you sat up quickly.

“Wait.”

Stilling, Ghost waited for you to speak again.

Your outstretched hand closed into a loose fist, “Just… Can I touch you?”

His reply was staggered with a blink, “Yes.” And he leant forwards with his elbows on his knees.

It struck you then why he was so unlike himself: he wasn’t here as Ghost.

The backs of your knuckles clumsily made contact with his right cheek, dragging down his jaw. Simon closed his eyes. His head tilted a fraction against your touch. Tears sprung free and tracked down your cheeks, contradicted by your smile that was brimming with the delight of being trusted.

“You’re right,” Simon mused when he opened his eyes, “Good thing you kept your eyes closed.”

“Yeah,” You sniffled. “But at least now I can tell Soap you’re not ugly.”

Scoffing, Simon tugged his balaclava back over his face and adjusted it to fit properly, “Fuckin’ hell.”

“How wrong he was,” you almost giggled with glee.

Even as the laughter ceased, your smile remained. And you could tell by the small crinkles at his eyes that Simon was too.

-----------------------------------------------

It’s you, your voice high and thin before it's met by the low, rumbling rasp of Ghost responding with something Soap can't discern. The floor creaks, the shadows burning patterns across the popcorn ceiling. Cobwebs. The stench of rotten wood. 

What are they whisperin’ about?

Soap hears Ghost shift. He’s surprised at how the man maneuvers his colossal mass without the room buckling.

Simon somehow got dibs on being your source of warmth for the night. Soap had even asked first, a tease more than anything.

“Care to be my cuddle buddy, lass?”

You’d laughed before your eyes cut to Ghost who was leaning against the wall, bulging arms crossed over his chest. All black aside from the white stain of his mask. Looming like some stone effigy.

“Um,” you said. “Sure, Johnny-“

“You’re taking watch with me, Red,” Ghost had cut in, tone flat and dry enough to burn. You’d blinked at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. 

“Oh,” you said softly. “Forgot. My bad.”

Sure.

Soap jerks when he hears you whimper. It slices through the cold, the wind. He moves his head to look before Vargas knocks him in the thigh. Soap scowls.

“What the hell, mate?” he whispers.

“He’s fucking her,” Vargas states plainly. “Just warning you.”

Soap nearly chokes, a laugh punching at the back of his throat before he stifles it. “Come again?”

Vargas widens his eyes meaningfully. Soap can’t believe it and so he lifts himself to his elbows to peek across the room. He’s not exactly understated, mostly running on curiosity and bewilderment. 

Lieutenant wouldn’t -

Oh. Holy. Shit. 

Ghost is on top, one arm braced beside your face. Soap can barely see you due to Ghost’s giant body that’s pinning you to the floor. You’re revealed in flashes. Bare knees locked against Ghost’s waist, pant leg loose around an ankle. His trousers are hitched lower, but he still appears fully dressed. Your small hands clasp the back of Ghost’s head, before slipping down to dig your fingertips into the nape of his neck.

Ghost is fucking you slow and lazy. His ass rises before driving forward, lurching you slightly up the floor. One gloved hand is under the crown of your skull, pillowing it from the uncomfortable wood surface. Your heel slides down the back of his thigh. He thrusts a little more sharply and it forces a moan from your lips.

“Shhh,” Ghost murmurs in a voice that Soap has never heard him use. In fact, it sounds alien coming out of Simon Riley. It’s coaxing and tender. “Good girl,” he finishes before there’s the distinct noise of something wet. 

A hand grips his collar and wrenches him back down. It’s Gaz, expression chastising as he cocks an eyebrow. “If Ghost catches you watching them…”

“He’s gonna what?” Soap returns, jaw clenched because the sight, the sounds are doing something to him. “If Price walks in, the cunt’s gonna have his fuckin’ head for screwin’ her.”

Gaz squints, his teeth gleaming white in the dark before stifling a yawn. “They’ve been sleeping together for months. I thought you knew.”

The wind screeches outside.

Soap gapes and Gaz flicks his chin. “Close your mouth, man, before the flies get in.”

Soap rolls his eyes. “How’d you know?”

“Saw them going at it outside that bar in Rio.”

“Like kissing?”

“Like he was behind her and had her cheek shoved up against the alley wall.”

Jesus. He remembered that trip. You’d scraped the side of your face and you’d said you’d fallen. 

“They haven’t been subtle,” Vargas shrugs. “Remember when Ghost slaughtered half that room on Vlad Kuznetsov’s boat…”

“Yeah,” Soap replies. “But they’d shot her. He was just reacting.”

“He was supposed to keep them alive,” Vargas reminds him. “Death only if necessary.”

“So he deemed it necessary-“

“Because they hurt his girl.”

“I’m too tired for this,” Soap growls. “He should-“

There’s the startling noise of Ghost slamming his hand on the floor and shuddering. You giggle, and he bites off a curse before slapping some bare piece of you - probably your ass. Christ. 

Silence returns. The two lovers are breathing hard and deep. The floor creaks and fabric rasps. Simon is talking to you in a soothing baritone before he chuckles. It’s weird as fuck.

“Think she’s seen his face?” Gaz suddenly asks. The question hangs there between the three of them. When Soap hears Ghost laugh softly again, Soap thinks it’s more likely than not.

“Sunshine, this is Bravo-6. How copy?”

You blinked, flicking your gaze from your rifle’s scope. Car horns blared from the bustling city beneath you, unaware of the conflict happening 40 stories high.

“Bravo-6, this is Sunshine. Loud and clear, over.”

If Price was raising you, it meant that the fight would soon be moving into your arcs of fire.  You settled in behind your rifle, resting your cheek against the stock. You’d already accounted for the distance and thankfully the wind was steady enough that adjusting your weapon sight hadn’t been difficult to calculate.

“Sunshine, you’ll have company soon, 42nd floor. Clear them out.”

“Copy that, Bravo-6.”

The windows had already been blown out, providing you the clearance to take your shots, so you waited, watching the elevator and stairs with your finger curled lightly against the trigger. However, when someone had finally come busting through the door, you hadn’t expected it to be Ghost.

Jesus. Ripping your finger off the trigger, your heart raced, its panicked beating echoing in your ears like a church bell.

You hissed a curse beneath your breath, what the fuck was he doing in the red zone? Bravo team was meant to herd them onto the 42nd floor so you could clear the board, not pay a house call with them.

“Ghost, what the fuck are you doing?” You snapped into your headset.

You watched him throw himself over a bench on the far side of floor, tucking his body behind it for cover. He turned his head to the window, presumably to where he knew you were nested.

“Shit’s gone sideways, change of plans. I’ll distract them, you shoot ‘em.” His voice was ragged and rougher than usual. Small groans were woven into his words and as you looked at him a little longer, you realized that he was pressing a hand to his stomach.

Ghost had been shot.

Your heart dropped.

“Incoming!” He shouted, twisting his body to face the bench rather than away from it.

You hissed, moving your sights to where they should have been- at the doors. Instantly, you realized there were too many of them, he hadn’t cut down as many as he should have and now it was a race against the clock. Kill them before they killed Ghost.

You got to work, falling into a frenzied rhythm. Spot and shoot, spot and shoot. You forced yourself to not check on your teammate huddled into the corner, to not see if he’d been turned to minced meat.

One by one, they fell. And one by one, anxiety had begun to claw its way through your chest. You had a sniper rifle, not an LMG, it was near impossible to clear this many people before they’d be able to reach him.

“Fuck! Fucking shoot, Sunshine!” Ghost roared through your comms. Your breath was unsteady now. One after the other they fell and one after the other they pushed towards the little bench Simon Riley was hiding behind.

You said nothing, unable to talk, unable to think, only able to shoot and shoot and shoot.

“I’m getting overrun here!”

You pushed your scope to view Ghost. There were four of them on him already and so many more pushing ahead. Your heart dropped as the sounds of your shots became hollower, the tell-tale signs of sound echoing through your mag, you were coming up on empty.

Then there was a dull click where there should have been a ‘bang’.

 “Reloading!” You shrieked, dumping the mag and scrambling for a fresh one from your body armour. All the while you watched Ghost fight on the back foot, offense became defence and fluidity became manic.

He was going to die.

And it would be your fault.

“Covering!”

You held your breath.

Soap slid through the doorway, shooting before he’d even had a good look at the scene before him. He knew there was too many of them, he’d heard the radio chatter and he’d heard your panic.

You could have cried at the sight of him.

You finished reloading, repositioning yourself with a newfound hope fuelling your body. Between the three of you, the rest of the insurgents had been light work to clear out. It was a massacre, a sight that would traumatize most with bodies piling along the floor.

But all you could think of was Simon.

You heard his groans as Soap helped him to his feet, muttering comfort beneath his breath the way only Soap could. “Come on, LT. You’re pretty banged up, let’s get you home.”

As the adrenaline began to seep from your body, leaving you shaking and quiet, your mind began to spiral.

Nights spent on the roof, revelling in each other’s company but not saying a word. The short tit for tat banter that you’d fallen into. The drunken nights you’d sought each other out, to chase the nightmares with touches neither of you would remember in the morning.

You’d almost let him die.

Ghost straightened as best as he could, leaning against Soap as the Sergeant held him up. They both came to a stop by the window near the exit, the battered soldier pausing to gaze out across the buildings. And although you knew he couldn’t actually see you, it felt like he was looking straight at you.

“You did good, Sunshine.”

The words were genuine, almost soft if it weren’t the ragged breathing from his injury.

You bit your lip.

When you didn’t respond, the pair continued on, disappearing into the elevator and leaving you to suffer with your thoughts.

_______

The cold, night air always helped to clear your head.

You were sat on the rooftop, legs dangling off the edge of the building as though it were just a normal bench. Your chest rested against the railing; your arms folded over the top of it.

Your mind was a mess.

How had that mission gone so wrong, so fast? Logically, there wasn’t much more that you could have done. You were on the trigger constantly, a body dropped every two to three seconds, a good enough pace when you were constantly switching targets.

But you weren’t fast enough.

“You’re not gonna jump, are you?”

Your body jolted, gripping the railing tight with a gasp so you didn’t fall right off the edge. Ghost stood beside you, clad in a pair of soft black trousers and a hoodie that was drawn over his head. You swallowed your anxiety when he lowered himself to sit beside you.

You’d seen him without that jumper plenty of times, twisting against each other in the dark with alcohol on your tongues. But seeing him with it, seeing him look like any other man preparing for bed, made your heart soften.

“No.” You rasped, answering his quiet joke.

You both fell into silence, but it wasn’t comfortable like it usually was, at least not on your end. You were stressed, the tension rising in your chest to suffocate you. You forced your eyes to remain on the horizon, observing what you could under the moonlight.

There was a nudge by your hand and you glanced down. The man held out a cigarette and a lighter and you forced yourself not to look at the unlit one hanging from his mouth. It was an unwritten rule, when he rolled the mask above his lips to smoke, you would avert your gaze.

You took the cigarette with a sigh and a soft ‘thank you’, perching it between your lips. You lit the smoke, drawing the first drag to keep it alight and Ghost softly took the lighter from you.

“Didn’t know you were out of hospital,” you said, taking another draw. You blinked away the head-spin from the nicotine, feeling the stress melt from your shoulders.

“If you’d known you wouldn’t be up here,” he said simply. You clenched your jaw, hoping he wouldn’t push the subject. You could feel his gaze burning into the side of your face, watching for any tell-tale sign to say that he was right.

But you just took another drag.

“You’re avoiding me,” Ghost finally said outright.

Your heart stuttered in your chest and you made an effort not to crush the cigarette between your fingers.

“I almost got you killed.”

The officer’s breath came out in a short huff, the equivalent of a laugh for the sullen character. “Don’t flatter yourself. We fucked up; you were on clean up.”

Your heart was racing now, but you knew what the problem was. You knew why you were beating yourself up over something that wasn’t really your fault. It was childish and it was immature and one day it might just get you both killed.

You’d become a liability. It was your duty to inform him.

“I’m going to apply for a transfer out of the 141.” Your sentence rang like the toll of a church bell, echoing between you. You couldn’t believe you’d finally said it but you’d known for a while.

“What?” Ghost shifted beside you, twisting his body to stare at you front on.

“I’m going to get someone killed-“

“Is this about today?” Ghost questioned and you risked a glance at him. His lips were curled in disbelief and he flicked the cigarette off the roof. He dragged his mask back over his mouth, but his eyes still flashed with incredulity. “Get the fuck over it, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s about you, Simon!” You snapped.

Ghost fell silent.

“I’m fucking compromised,” you stood to your feet, flinging your cigarette over the railing. The soldier followed in suit, towering over you instantly. “I can’t be in a situation like that again- what if I’d have failed? I couldn’t fucking breathe, I couldn’t think-“

His hand came to rest against your shoulder and your words guttered to a stop.

You peered up at him in surprise, meeting that dark gaze. For the longest time, you’d always thought Simon had dark eyes, the blackest you’d seen. The breath left your body when, on closer inspection, you realized they were fucking blue.

For a long moment neither of you said nothing, silenced by the sudden display of affection. There was no end goal, no reason for him to be touching you. No high to be chasing, no bullet to push you out of the way of.

He was trying to comfort you.

He took a sharp breath. “I know.”

You blinked at him, opening your mouth then closing it again. He’d understood. He knew what you were saying, he’d known all along because Simon had been fighting the same thoughts.

When his fingers tightened against your shoulder, your lip trembled.

You wanted to hold him. You wanted to see him.

You knew that you could do neither.

“I don’t know how to love you,” you whispered, “I don’t know how to feel like this and work with you. Watch you get shot at. Be the one to make sure you don’t die.”

Simon shrugged, his gaze never leaving your face, taking in your features as though committing it to memory. He had no words of affection to give you but you could feel it in the way his thumb rubbed against your skin ever so softly, a ghost of his touch.

“You’re smarter than me, Sunshine. You can figure it out too.” His words were careful, and you blinked up at him from where you’d hung your head.

You can figure it out too.

When he pulled his hand from your shoulder, you felt the cold of his absence. But his words had set a fire in your chest that kept you burning.

“Be quiet.”

Another order. One you understand the weight of. Because these secret exchanges are compromising to both of you— Lieutenant and subordinate, a dynamic that could easily prevent you from serving. Keeping quiet has been the agreement since the first time you’d found yourself taking his cock.

Now—

You hold up your end of the deal by lifting a hand to your mouth, biting the heel of your thumb to quiet your whimpers. But it’s so much— too much. You’ve quickly learned that Simon Riley eats pussy like a man starved. And with a mind that feels muddled by euphoria, you forget his previous command, thighs trembling to shut out his stubbled jaw.

“I said keep ‘em open,” Ghost hisses quietly.

(What he should say: don’t hide my meal.)

Gloved hands roughly pry your plush thighs apart so he can continue his merciless assault.

You try your best, but there’s not much more of his tongue - drinking, slurping, teasing - you can take before your squirming thighs attempt to push him away once again.

“Jesus Christ.”

A silent sneer. Hazel eyes that flicker up to you behind the hollow orbitals of a skull. In frustration, his warm mouth leaves you. You watch him sit up so he can reach for something from his heavy boot— a knife. The black sheath stares back at you only for a moment before he removes it, revealing a silver blade that catches the dim candlelight.

“Keep ‘em open or I’ll carve my name…” and he taps a gloved digit to the supple skin of your thigh, just beside your cunt, “…right here. I swear it.”

A final warning. Cold and quiet. He presses the blade against your inner thigh to keep it in place with the threat of its sharp edge.

You suck in a breath.

He wouldn’t dare.

But the subtle sting, his whispered threat, only heightens your sensitivity. Nerves prickle under the metal and your back arches against the floorboards. He returns his mouth to the fat of your cunt with slurps and dribbles. He hasn't even fucked you yet and your hole already feels used. Your thighs continue to quiver but you seek every ounce of your will to keep them spread open for him, the knife doing well to motivate you.

And soon— liquid pleasure. It erupts from your cunt and spreads to each of your limbs. Drenching his tongue, stubble, lips. You bite your hand with force and your thigh shakes against the blade until you feel it just barely nip that first layer of skin. But you keep them apart, following his command even in your pleasure-altered state.

“Good girl,” your superior murmurs a piece of praise as he licks it up. But he doesn’t give you much time to recover before he’s moving the flat side of his knife to your soiled cunt and giving it a few taps.

Wet mess under sleek blade. You shudder.

“Now stand up.”

Upon weak legs, you lift yourself. Spine bruised from the floor. You stand there wholly naked (he’d been quick to remove each layer before eating your pussy) and instinctively hold your breasts, nipples pert from the chill air. Ghost stands up wholly clothed. His preference. Only his thick gear had been placed on the floor in the midst of it all.

Thick heartbeats. A lick of his wet lips. The smell of sex and mothballs in the room. Then, in a quiet flurry, he presses you against the wall. One hand gripping your shoulder and the other clutching the handle of his knife— the colossal mass of him towers behind you.

“Ghost.”

You almost whine. Pussy drooling: his spit, your cum. You feel ready for him, hands trembling as they press into the wall's wood. Crazed. Perhaps because of the long day you’d had. Possibly because of the knife he has pulled out to threaten you with. Your orgasm has fizzled into the desperation for another and you press your ass back to fill the crevice of his clothed hips.

To the rest of the team, you are a dutiful soldier. Collected. Focused. To him: you are anything but.

“Shh.” He brings his exposed lips to your ear. “Needy little thing. Christ. Just came from my mouth, didn’t you?”

“Want… more.”

He simply shushes you again by letting the knife finds its way to your throat. Another warning. Just barely does he press the cool edge against the skin, but it does well to make you shiver in obedience. The threat, the thrill. He could easily slice your jugular just as he could easily pin you down and carve his infamous name into your flesh; you’ve witnessed him gut men without second thought.

But instead of spilling blood, your Lieutenant undoes his belt. A clank. Shuffling trousers. Soon, his warm, fat cock grazes the back of your thigh. Head weeping. The soft, dewy skin of it is a stark contrast to the sharp steel, but the threat carries the same.

He could do equal damage with both.

Here, in a Colorado safe house while the rest of your unit sleeps, Ghost moves the knife from your throat to the expanse of your bare back. His cock swinging low against your ass. You’re not sure what he’s doing until you feel the pointed tip trail down each notch in your spine, slowly, causing you to shudder and writhe and press your lips together.

Icy metal.

Gooseflesh erected in its wake.

“Like how it feels, do you?” Ghost asks quietly in your ear. His free hand touches his cock, and you know it because the wet head nudges against your ass with each stroke. “Knew you would, little dove. Filthy thing, you are.”

A crackled whisper: “Don’t tease me, Lt.”

Flicker of candlelight. His breath down your neck.

“Shut it,” and the knife’s warning finds your throat once more, “I’ll do what I want.”

But it seems his need is as thick as yours. He taps his heavy cock against your ass cheek only a few times before guiding it between your legs, mushroomed tip feeding into you without reserve. Fat. Throbbing. You feel the ridge of every vein against your velvet walls. A man whose face you’ve never even seen slowly splits you apart, inch by inch, with one of his many knives bared to your throat.

It hurts so good.

“This goddamn cunt…” he mouths a growl into the shell of your ear. Plastic skull pressed against your hair. “…has me doin’ things I shouldn’t.”

A skeletal hand covers your lips to keep you quiet as his cock reaches the hilt, as if he doesn’t trust you even with the threat of his knife. The noises you might make could cost him too much. His slow entrance soon turns into deep, strong thrusts that have you pitifully mewling into his glove until your cheeks turn pink.

And then the blade pricks your neck with a little more force.

An irritated hiss:

“It’s your fuckin’ fault. Gonna get me in trouble, I swear to God. This perfect, little cunt… opening up for me. Suckin’ me in. Jesus Christ, you are such a slut.”

It’s the burn of his filthy words. The sting of his blade. The knowledge that you really shouldn’t be doing this, that there are men asleep out there who could easily slip in and witness your months-old secret. The taboo of it all shouldn’t make your walls clench around him, but it does.

Slut.

You know it.

Your eyes clamp shut.

Your belly flips and ripples with another growing swell of euphoria, to the point that tears begin to bleed from the corners of your closed lids. Sweltering salt that escapes down your cheeks and onto his gloved hand. A few tears make it to the blade, even.

Ghost… Simon. Your Lieutenant. Everything about this man is immeasurable. His size, his strength, his command, his penchant for making you cry. It’s only fitting that the deep press of his cock would be just as overwhelming. Each languid, full thrust presses his head against the plug of your womb. The crescent of his hips meets the jiggling fat of your ass with a force that digs your nipples into the wall.

All of him consumes all of you.

His scent - sulfur, kerosene - swarming your nose as you struggle to breathe. The feeble gulps of air down your throat further dig the blade against your neck until you are certain a pink welt will form.

The knife stings. It gnaws. His cock batters and bruises. You shiver. You bite his hand, but still he doesn’t relent.

It’s his fault.

It’s his whispered words in your ear, nudging you towards another precipice:

“You’re goin’ to cum on my cock, huh?” He gives a bite to your shoulder. “No one gets to see you like this but me. Fuckin’ crying ‘cause you’re about to cum again— bloody hell.”

And you do. His teeth, the knife, his rough hand over your mouth. It’s pain and pleasure. Need and secrecy. The unforgiving cock buried within you coaxes a second orgasm. White-hot. Frothing somewhere in your belly. A silenced moan in his palm. Your walls clench around the thick of him until he follows suit; painting your womb with white seed.

His cock twitches. Pulses. Stills.

He only pulls out of you when the knife against your neck finally lifts, faded sting left behind. A heavy chest breathes deep mouthfuls of air against you. You both try your best to rake in the aftermath without making too much noise, and in the quietness, an unspoken understanding lingers in the air:

This isn’t something either of us are willing to stop.

No— because your imperfect needs entwine perfectly. You have an itch for pain; he has the itch to supply it. You have a desire for pleasure without mercy; Ghost is anything but merciful. The consequences don’t seem to outweigh the way your bodies keep finding each other in the dark.

Moments later, your Lieutenant’s mouth finds your ear again.

His knife— you wonder where it’s left to, but your answer arrives in the cold, flat side pressing against the mess between your legs.

Sloppy drips of him and you coat the metal.

“Dove,” he murmurs in your ear and then brings the knife to your reddened lips. You see it through your hazy vision— all the cum he has collected. “Lick it clean. Go on.”

But with the way he is looking at you, you almost wish you hadn’t said anything at all. Your superior has always looked at you with nothing but respect— he’s seen you easily take out rooms full of guards twice your size, earning you a short nod and a “good work, soldier” with the lilt of a smirk in his voice. (A smirk you could never confirm given the mask.) Where the other men in your unit gazed at you as if you were something fragile - someone to lust over but never depend on - Ghost gazed at you in the same way he did everyone else, despite your age and appearance.

So it feels weird— the way he looks at you now.

As if, suddenly, you have become fragile to him.

You squirm under his softened eyes.

“Why are you stopping, Ghost?” you practically huff.

It’d taken only a few thick looks shared between the two of you for the night to end up here. While the rest of your unit was drinking together, you had snuck off with the behemoth of a man back to the barracks, hiding in his shadow. Wound up in a place you never dreamed of entering— the Lieutenant’s dorm. He’d instantly pushed you against the door, revealing his mouth under the balaclava only so he could cover your lips in a starved kiss: Christ, kid. Been wanting to do this for months now.

It was all a bit hard to believe, something out of one of your fantasies.

But now—

Now he’s sitting up on his cot and lifting his gloved hands off your body.

“There’s jus’ no way,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you. “Sweet little thing like you… all these blokes?”

“You said it yourself once,” you tuck your hair behind your ear. “These blokes aren’t worth my time. So I've never given them my time, alright?”

“Bloody hell,” he breathes.

“Please, don’t—“ you almost whimper, missing the warmth of his hands. “Please, don’t look at me differently. Why does it matter if I’m a virgin?”

“Matters, kid.”

Your Lieutenant— the owner of a rough baritone who usually only speaks up when necessary. He now utters words that are soft and etched with worry. The notch in his throat bobs for a moment as he sighs through a flared nose.

“I want to fuck you, believe me. But m’not sure if your first time should be with me.”

“Why not?”

“Might... hurt you.”

And his large hands now ghost gently over the curve of your form. Thoughtful, uncertain. You have never witnessed uncertainty in Ghost: it warms your belly and confirms your decision.

"I trust you, Lt," you whisper. "Would you rather my first time be with someone I don't trust?"

"Jesus, Y/N." Ashen eyelashes flutter shut for a moment. A heavy breath as he mulls it over. When he reopens them, he mutters, "You're certain you want this?"

You know what he's trying to address— there are more power imbalances here than just your inexperience.

But you'd made up your mind when you followed him to his room. Maybe even before then. Your answer is given in the form of you lifting your shirt over your head, revealing your black bra.

He sucks in a breath.

Skeletal fingers carefully remove the rest of your clothing for you.

Until you are left in just your undergarments. So bare and exposed beneath him.

Ghost— covered head to foot.

That is until he finally shucks off the gloves. Rough, warm hands touch your bare waist and thighs with intrigue, gentleness, desire. The touch doesn't entirely surprise you. Ghost may have frightened you a bit when you first joined his unit (you'd heard enough rumors). But you'd learned over the months that he was more like a big dog, one that always came to lick your wounds. Barked, but rarely went for the bite.

You trusted him.

Wanted him.

Your hands boldly go for his trousers.

He watches you carefully, gaze thick and clouded.

When your curious touch reaches the warm, solid length of him, you nibble at your cheek. Is he really this big—? The truth is confirmed as you tug his cock out and your eyes take a look. Long, girthy. Practically bulging in the small grip of your hand.

Might hurt you.

Oh—

He wasn't lying.

But you are eager and brave and, perhaps, naive so you carefully stroke him. Attempt to guide the swollen tip to your panties.

"Nuh-uh." He tuts your hand off him. This time you can see it: a faint smirk tugging on his exposed lips. "Not gonna fit like that, little dove."

"Oh," you mumble. "How—?"

"Gotta get you ready for me, alright?"

You nod expectantly and watch him hook his fingers under your panties. Once they are out of the way, he parts your plush thighs. An exposed jaw and mouth, covered in stubble, dip down to your cunt. You've only had someone do this once.

But, oh— it hadn't been anything like this.

Your Lieutenant's warm, skilled tongue strokes you. Meticulous, soft. Firm when it needs to be. He sucks on your clit and hums low into the growing slickness, a rumble that reverberates through him and makes you shiver. You instinctively rock your hips against the mouth that tastes you and feeds you all at once.

"Good," he murmurs huskily into the mess that ensues from his slurps and licks. "Need you soaked for it. Tha's right... take what you need."

He flattens his tongue against you. Lets you grind that bud of nerves against it until your hands are gripping the blanket on his bed.

It's not until you are whimpering, your brows pinched together, that he adds a finger. Just one. It eases into you carefully. Tentative. You grip the back of his balaclava and hiss at the unfamiliar intrusion.

"Shh," he coaxes under his breath, lifting his mouth from you as the digit disappears slowly into your hole. "Just my finger. You can handle it, dove. Know you can."

"I can," you tell him, breathless, nodding against the pillow. "Give me another?"

"Eager little thing," he muses gruffly. He plants an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh and complies with your request. You tip your head down to watch him add the second finger all the way to the thick of his knuckle. Both of you, Lieutenant and rookie, marvel at the sight of it.

“Look at that. Startin’ to open up for me,” he praises quietly, keeping his fingers buried for a moment before gliding them out. Slow and thoughtful. He looks at the glistening slick on them, groans deeply, and then pushes them back in until your thighs are quivering. “Good girl. Jus’ relax around them, yeah?”

“I’m trying to.”

You take a deep breath to stoke the flames of your confidence. Your wet pussy stretches with discomfort until, after a few more strokes of his fingers, you feel your muscles loosen a bit and your mouth parts in pleasure. Blood swims straight between your thighs, the lips of your pussy puffing up. It’s all a rush, a new thrill. You’ve spent many adrenaline-filled moments with Ghost, but none quite like this.

Your belly flips and bubbles. He quickens the pace of his fingers before he leans over to undo the clasp of your bra under your backside.

“Fuckin’ beautiful, kid. Know that?” he rasps, licking his lips as your breasts spill out, and he stares down at the sight with hunger bleeding through his patience. “Jesus Christ. Gonna look so good with my cock in you.”

“I want it, Lt.”

“I know - fuck. Can feel how much you want it.”

His free hand cups your breast. Glides over the soft mound of it as he continues fucking you with his fingers, not too fast. Not too rough.

Ghost is a tactical man. He knows how to wait and observe.

He is also aware of how big he is— every part of him. Equally aware of how small you are, despite how skilled and quick you may be out in the field.

It's not until he can fit in a third finger that he decides you are ready enough. He gives one last thrust of his digits to the soft pad near your cervix. Once he pulls them out, he hovers over you and moves his soaked fingers to your lips.

"Go on. Taste how needy you are fo' me."

With wide eyes, you fit the three fingers in your mouth. You taste the tang of yourself. Sweet, tart. You're ready, you think. Your pussy feels empty and you reach down for his cock once again, swiping an expectant thumb over the dewy tip.

"Let me, yeah?" He gently nudges your hand away once more.

A big dog who is here to take the lead.

Knowledgeable, gruff.

His own hand strokes himself. Other hand cups your jaw and brushes a gentle thumb over your bottom lip.

It's equally tender as it is dripped in lust. Want. A low growl shakes him as the mushroomed tip glides between your folds. Your hole quivers. Nerves flutter in anticipation. He keeps his eyes locked on yours— one last check for permission swirling amongst the hues of brown.

You nod breathlessly.

Needy.

His hips nudge forward so the thick tip of his cock, red and throbbing, dips into you with just enough force to ease past that first layer of resistance. Your breath catches in your throat. A tight pinch of your muscles around him.

"How’s it feel, huh?” he strains through gritted teeth.

He’s holding back, you can tell.

"Hurts," you can't help but admit. Eyes closing with a wince as he pushes in a bit more. “Is that... all of you yet?"

“Jesus, no.”

And when you wince again, his cock glides back out.

Panicked, almost.

You open your eyes to see that he is staring down at you with that same look again, as if he has broken you.

“Fuck,” he frowns. A sharp inhale cuts through his chest when he looks down at where your bodies had just been joined.

You follow his gaze and see what has his muscles suddenly tensing up— blood. Your own. Coating the tip of him (because that’s all he’d managed to get in).

He starts to sit up again.

Your ankles hook around the bends of his knees.

“Ghost— it’s okay.”

“Okay? I- I made you fuckin’ bleed, kid.”

“That’s not your fault. It’s okay, I mean it. Nothing we haven’t seen before, right, Lt?”

He sighs as he looks back to the mess between your thighs, the slick of you now stained red. Ghost has seen your blood before. He has sewn you up in the middle of combat, encouraged you with gentle words while you hissed under the sting of alcohol.

This is no different, really.

So he rolls up his sleeve and gives you an inked arm.

“Hold it,” he instructs firmly, and you know what he means. It’s a command that you naturally obey. There have been many times when he has given you his arm to dig your nails into to relieve the pain. Only this time— your cunt is the source of hurt.

“Jus’ gonna do it all at once, alright?”

“Okay,” you nod, trusting.

This time he moves forward in a swift, strong motion that rips the bandaid off and leaves you gripping his arm until red streaks are left on the tattooed skin. You gasp, feeling stretched in a way you didn’t think possible, and he leans down to press an oddly light kiss to the space between your brows. He lingers like this for a moment, cock buried against your womb: a place so deep that only he has now been.

“M’gonna move,” he says, holding your thigh with one hand and moving his other palm to your cheek. “Tough girl, huh? Doin’ so well."

And when he moves, it is beyond uncomfortable. Despite how wet you are. His thick cock slowly drags out and your heels dig into his back when he eases back in, a gasp spilling from your lips. He keeps his hand on your cheek and studies your face, your eyes, as he fucks you with great restraint. Ghost has waited for this. He has done his part to respect you in the field— now, he gets to have you.

The prettiest girl.

And it's killing him—

—watching your lips tremble.

"Tell me.. if I should.. stop."

"No, don't," you swallow. You grip his shirt and claw at the skulls on his arm.

"You need to relax, dove."

"Don't you think I'm trying to?" A lick of your lips. "Maybe you should kiss me some more—?"

And when he does, you finally start to find some pleasure. His movements remain slow and steady yet strong and deep. His lips seal over yours in something hot and distracting, enough to get your naked body melting beneath him.

"Not gonna last very long in this tight cunt," he warns into your mouth, and the growled filth of it makes your belly warm again.

The discomfort remains, but now— the slow grind of his hips, the way his pubic bone touches your clit, allows you to ease open around him and moan softly. Strong fingertips press into your thigh. Ghost gives a few low groans that you wonder if anyone on this planet has ever witnessed besides you. His cock fills you up in movements that grow a bit clumsier, searching for his own pleasure because the grip of your cunt is just... insane.

He knows he is a terrible man.

But splitting your virgin pussy open and flooding your womb with his cum might be the worst thing he's ever done.

"Fuckin' hell."

Ghost can't help it— he bites your lip. Hisses.

It's not long before the swollen press of his cock leaves you, an emptiness replacing it. You don't have time to question him because soon he is moving his head back between your thighs. Where there was just pain, there is now his warm tongue again. Licking over your cunt and every bit of the mess dribbling from your used hole.