bisha

At first, the others treat you like a sorority girl. They treat you like you’re some grand dame duchess because you don’t look the part. Ghost never says anything. Not a word.

They end up biting their tongues when you behead a Russian Oligarch and take out his entire security team bullet by bullet. By the time the team reaches you, there’s a thick sheen of blood painting your face, a hitch in your breathing, and you might have a stab wound, but it’s fine. 

They look at you brand new. They call you Red Fox.

“Cute,” Soap remarks. “But aggressive as shit.”

“They’re full of rabies.”

“Exactly.”

It’s Ghost who barges into that room first. He stops in his tracks, tilting his head as those skull eyes regard you silently. Your eardrum has burst from the gunshots. Your finger is quivering around a trigger. There’s the taste of pennies and rain.

Focus. Focus. Focus. 

He’s staring, cataloging the room and your work. His gaze is so hard and unforgiving that you think he will squeeze you into a diamond. Brilliant. Shiny. Scintillating like a thousand stars. 

He jerks his head. “C’mon, lass. Time to go.”

***

He’s disarmingly unpredictable. He’s prickly and blunt but will turn around and carry you five miles to safety without complaint. 

You get bitten by a snake when you’re deep in the forest. There’s the smell of mulch and damp and soggy leaves, and the sun trickles through narrow branches. You follow him, attention pinned to the center of his back. He’s so tall that he has to duck. He bleeds into shadows. 

You’re so busy thinking about who Ghost is that you don’t realize where you’re stepping until pain ripples up your leg. You glance down at the sandy-brown snake that curls back into itself. Its head is shaped like an arrow, and a cool burn immediately begins to settle in your limbs. You inhale sharply as you stumble forward. Venomous. You’re fucked. They’re so far out. 

Ghost must hear you stagger because he whips around, the leaves crunching under your boots. “What is it, Fox?”

“Snake,” you choke out, and it really fucking hurts. 

“Red,” he says softly as he steps in your direction. “Hey, calm down. You gotta keep a straight head, so the venom doesn’t travel too quickly.”

Ghost is all business. He calls evac. He rips into someone about not having antivenom on hand, and you want to point out that that shit is expensive, but you’re going dizzy. You’re clammy and nauseous, and Ghost easily lifts you and places you on a rock. He tugs your boot off, your holster, removing anything constricting the area. He rips your pants so he can study the bite. Two tiny pricks that bead blood tears. You can’t read his face. It’s barren as a black sand beach. You do notice how big his eyes are, even against all that inky paint. He has blonde lashes. 

He grips your foot and elevates your leg, allowing it to rest on his tree trunk of a thigh. The rest of the team spreads out around them, blending into the brush with their camouflage. You can only see Ghost, who keeps glancing at you to ensure you haven’t started coughing up blood.

He touches your knee, sliding fingers along your calf, and it’s so unlike him, but it’s as if he’s trying to soothe your unsettled heartbeat.

You wiggle your toes. “Sir,” you say, and he raises his head. “You could suck the venom out.”

His stroking abruptly halts, seemingly stunned. He squints at you. “That-that doesn’t work.”

“I know.”

You think he might be smiling. “Is that some roundabout way of flirting with me?”

You nod. “Brought the snake out here and everything.” 

It’s okay for a minute. It’s bearable until it suddenly isn’t. 

Your vision clouds, and your body sways, but his broad hand engulfs your shoulder. It anchors you to the ground and centers your gravity. “Stay with me, yeah?” 

His voice is gravel and black tea. You brought him Yorkshire Gold from the store once, and he shook his head but took it anyway.

“I don’t feel good,” you slur as you press your hand to your brow. 

“Fox,” he says, a little aggressively. “You fucking keep those eyes on me.” 

You do it,  and it's startling because it’s so naked and strange, and the others are probably watching them have this intimate stare-off, and it feels like he’s pressing inside you, stretching your cunt until you erupt into shattered fragments of glistening snake scales.

Oh my god. You like him. 

You want him. Your lieutenant. 

The realization twists your heart into overdrive. You panic, blood rushing into your ears and dragging that poison all over. Ghost shoots forward, hand cupping the back of your skull as his thumb digs into the flesh beneath your ear.

He says your real name. He whispers it in a voice that is dipped in frustration. He clicks his tongue, hushing you like he’s trying to coax a spooked horse. You wonder if he’s ridden a horse. You wonder who he is or what he’s done, and how can you like a shadow of a person? A ghost?

His hand on your scalp is so warm. He’s got bedroom eyes that dip as they search yours. “Stay alert, love,” he says so quietly that none of the others can hear. “It’s an order.”

***

You shoulder your way into the room where you’d tracked Ghost’s last location. The whole mission has been a fucking mess, and while the room is covered in corpses, Ghost doesn’t look very triumphant.  He’s hunched over, coughing and sputtering through the fabric of his mask.

You rapidly scan the rest of the room for additional threats. It’s a lab. There’s a medical exam chair. The air tastes like sour candy, dusty as if someone showered the floor in flour. Nothing feels right. 

You maneuver over the various dead men to reach Ghost. When you touch his neck, he jolts. He jerks his head up to look at you, and his consciousness is seemingly gone. He’s sweating profusely, and his chest rises and falls at a frenzied speed. You grab his face. “What is it?”

“Neurotoxin,” he breathes before he coughs again. “Fucking guy got me before I shot him.”

You nod as you try to think about what to do. How quickly can you save him? How deadly is it?

“Remember Compound X back in Siberia?”

You twist around, mouth falling open. “The one for the breeding program.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, swaying and nearly toppling forward. You lunge for him, hands on his shoulders to support his weight. Your eyes drift down to his crotch, where he is visibly aroused. 

How long does he have until it makes his heart stop? 

Slowly, you guide him toward the medical exam chair. You sit him down, and he has enough strength to lift his head and look at you. Your decision must be written across your face because he tries to pull away. 

“No,” he growls. 

“You don’t have a choice.”

“We have time.”

“No, we don’t,” you argue. “It’s the fastest way to get that toxin out of your system.”

He huffs a laugh. Exasperated. Torn up. You know that poison is shutting down all of his control. He’s going to turn down a road you can’t pull him out from if they keep wasting precious minutes.

“Didn’t want it like this,” he mumbles as he rubs the hard surface of his mask. He sits back, loosening a breath. “There’s handcuffs in my gear.”

You frown. “For?”

Ghost wraps his arms around the back of the exam chair. His enormous body is almost comically big in comparison. “I-I don’t know what I’ll do if I have you under me. I can’t-can’t control myself. It’ll be safer.”

Something hot pulses between your legs at the idea of him breaking you open. It’s fucked up and wrong, but it warms your belly. There are parts of you that have wanted him to fuck you against a wall or slide into your cunt when they’re stuck together in their tent on missions.

Covertly. His hand on your mouth.

That isn’t what this is though. He needs your help, and you think about how he took care of you when that snake bit your leg or when everyone else doubted you. 

You find the handcuffs and place them on his wrists. He shudders when you brush your knuckles across his forearm. It’s rippling muscle and tattoos. A skull.

“Fox,” he says. His voice is lower, grating, and ragged. 

You walk around the chair to face him. You undo your pants and yank them off along with your underwear. He’s not in good shape. His face is damp with sweat, his pupils blown out. Fully dark. 

He groans your name. It spills out like shattered teeth as he repeats it.

You grip his shoulders, the tendons immediately shifting beneath your palm. You hitch one leg over to straddle him, the fabric of his pants rasping your bare thighs.

“We don’t have to,” he mutters. “I don’t want you to have-”

“Shut the fuck up, Simon,” you bite, and he does. His eyes widen a bit, a drop of white in all that black before they go desperate again. “Let me help you.”

It unnerved you to see him vulnerable. It looks like he’s been skinned alive and you can only access his soft, fleshy parts.

Give me your bones. Your organs. Your breath.

You undo his belt and his tac pants. You slide your hand inside and grip his already fully erect cock. You swallow as your fingers barely touch around the width of him. God. 

You rub your thumb over the tip. He’s leaking pre-cum and when your nail nips his skin, he shivers. Slowly you guide him forward, your knees uncomfortable digging into the chair's cushion as you hover above him. His dick nudges the sensitive folds of your cunt - a kiss.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “It’s okay. I want this.”

Ghost audibly grits his teeth as you slowly sink onto him. He’s too big, the blunt head of his cock snags against your entrance, and you have to work yourself down. You breathe through your nose, brow furrowing as you shut your eyes and attempt to take him to the hilt. 

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss as he bucks, demanding more, needing more the second he feels the tight, slick clutch of your sex.

“Easy,” you try, gluing your forehead to his, skin slipping against the shell of his mask. “Easy, Simon.”

He nods haltingly and tries to slow his thrusts. He’s burning up with a fever and it’s still shocking how well he’s trying to hide it, keep it below the surface until it boils over. When you hit a good rhythm, you sigh, allowing yourself to relax and suck him deeper. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Feel good.”

You draw back to stare at him. Your hips roll in an even, almost mechanical tempo. He meets your gaze, his shoulders tensing and his biceps bulging against the strain of his handcuffed wrists. You watch each other, a breath between you as you circle your pelvis and ride him slow. The fabric of the balaclava rises with each word, and you imagine his mouth. Soft lips.

You touch the hard piece of his mask, thumb flexing against the blunt teeth. You want to lean down and kiss them, tongue each until they scratch and make you bleed. He is the skull, the mask, the alias that’s coated his truth until there is no Simon anymore. No family. No university stories or holidays or fucking around in a pub.

You flex your cunt, lower muscles bearing down as you grip him. He groans before he abruptly swallows it. The sex is starting to feel too good. There’s pleasure coiling behind your pussy, drifting like the tide as it holds to the shore. 

“Is it getting better?” you ask and his gaze slips from your face to where he’s burying himself in your tight cunt. 

He nods, but it’s not enough.

“Words, Lieutenant,” you demand. “Stay with me.”

His head jolts, his cock twitching deep.

Stay with me. Stay with me. Eyes on me. 

“Yeah,” he husks, voice thin and full of too much. “Yeah, Fox. I’m - It’s better.”

You briefly wonder if it will be painfully awkward after this. Maybe, he’ll transfer you. Maybe, he’ll never speak to you again. But you can’t care. His life is on the line. You’re sucking out the poison. 

You cling to him, desperate and a little dizzy. He’s so big and you’re so full, packed to the brim as his cock drags against your walls. 

Your orgasm takes you by surprise. It’s the rough graze of his pants against your clit, the depth of his penetration hitting something buried in your body's core. You lurch against him, arms wrapping around his neck as a whimper escapes. You go boneless, all loose and wet, and you feel his nose press into your cheek, his masked mouth sliding against your jaw as he grinds into you. 

“Ss’good,” he utters quietly. “So tight, love.”

He's barely made any noises beyond guttural, low grunts, or heavy breathing. You think he could be trying to collar the situation and hold himself back. No confessions.

But then, he plants his feet and begins to really fuck you. He pistons his hips and slams up until there is only the sound of your soaked cunt swallowing him repeatedly along with slapping skin. “Fucking hell.” He grunts. “Jesus.”

It’s a brutal taking, and you aren’t soaked enough. It’s a rasp and a chafe, and you’re raw as you take what he gives you. “Good girl,” he says against your tits. “Good fucking girl.” He’s still powerful, even with his hands locked behind his back. He’s fully claiming you, hips lifting as his cock punches up against the furthest part of your core.

“Simon,” you say. “Come for me. I know you need to.”

His voice catches on a sound. It’s all from his belly, low and deliberate as his length begins to throb, sheathed to the hilt. He stiffens. The warm rush of his spend fills you.

It goes and goes as you straddle him, allowing every last drop. As soon as it’s over, you try to draw away, give him space. “Don’t you dare, lass,” he protests, clear and streaked in the remaining flash of that feverish pollen. “I think I’ll need you again.”

You blink down at him, surprised.