He tells the entire team about you, like a parent showing baby pictures. It's just a constant stream of just the most benign candid shots of his woman. During training he shows Soap a picture of you drinking coffee. When finishing up paperwork, he corners Price into watching a video of you making dinner. Gaz is too nice to deny Ghost when he whips out a photo of you dressed in soft clothes that compliment your sweet features.

At first none of them noticed how odd the pictures were. You never seem to look into the camera, focus drawn always to something else. There's such a natural look on your face like Ghost has captured you in a moment, outside of the regular posing for a camera. There's a picture in his wallet of just you sleeping in bed.

It was probably Soap who first noticed-but he can't be sure that Price doesn't know and simply doesn't care. It's just, one morning Ghost proudly shared another picture. This time, you were walking along the street. Sensible heels, soft crewneck sweater, tucked into a pair of women's formal pants.

The photo has clearly been taken across the street, there are many people between you and the photographer. That's not unusual but today Soap notices that in this picture there is an intense look of terror in your eyes. A fear of whoever is pointing their lens in your direction.

Soap asks about it, he's much to curious about his C.O's private life.

"Your bird looks ready to run," he murmurs, "Better keep a good grip on her." It doesn't sound as funny as Soap had intended it to be. Not like the way it was in his head. But instead of being offended, an odd look sparks in Ghost's eyes.

"She couldn't even if she tried," he replies, with that familiar profane humor in his voice.

In the next couple of days, the photos that Ghost shows Soap escalate in tone. He's seen plenty of the normal deployment pictures. Guys with a partner back home are more than happy to flash their gifts. Lingerie, sex toys, tit pics, full nudes. Soap has seen more than he'd admit to in polite company.

But Ghost brings an odd collection. You're not articulated into a performance of sex. Nothing lurid or dirty. Instead, Ghost arrives at training with his phone. He swipes through another collection and this time, you're missing articles of clothing. You're perched on your couch, watching a movie in a baggy t-shirt with nothing underneath. There's a close-up of you brushing your teeth with a towel slung low on your waist. He's even shown a video of you undressing, pulling on a swimsuit over your beautiful figure.

"Isn't she fit," Soap says with a whistle, trying to act casual. It's a difficult situation to be in, he's seen more than he should. And likes it more than he can admit.

"Careful," Ghost snarls. He swipes to another picture and honestly, how can he say something like that to Soap and then pull out this video. It's hard to make out the details, the entire room is dark, audio is shit. But there's a faint buzzing noise, something mechanical that makes Soap's ears prick.

"Sir," he hisses. But Ghost doesn't respond. The person holding the camera shifts. It's clear now, the camera man is peaking out through the crack in a door. The lens is focused on you but it's clear that your mind is elsewhere. Propped up against satin pillows, you look down at your phone. One hand is under the cover, moving gently up and down. There's a look of pure bliss on your face, eyes rolled back and brows furled.

After a moment you shift, changing footing to get a better angle. The blanket falls back revealing your entire body. Soft skin and curved joints. Two fingers work in and out of your cunt, pressing deeper. A wet squelching sound does its best to break through the terrible feedback of Ghost's shitty camera. You sink all the way down to flat on your back, crying out as the angle changes again.

Soap can't stare for long-even if it's an effort to pull away his eyes. No, there's something more alarming that draws Soap's attention. Near the foot of your bed there hangs a large gold bordered mirror. The angle is just right for Soap to see who is recording in the reflection. Its Ghost, no denying the man's impossible form. He leans down, through the door's crack. A camera's light blinking illuminates the white in his white mark.

"Sir," Soap hisses again. But Ghost is already pulling back. He looks just as stern and smug as ever, awful bastard.

"Careful, Sergeant," he says. The phone goes back in his pocket. Soap closes his eyes, willing away dark shame and arousal. He would rather pretend like nothing happened than expose their shared sick fascination with your oblivious exposure. Sweet soft skin, vulnerable sex. His teeth itch and Soap wonders what it would be like to find a girl of his own. Someone like you. Someone that Ghost isn't holding so covetously with dragon's greed.

Not used to being home alone but I've got the place to myself tonight. But it's got me thinking about the reader who comes out of your room for a midnight snack and sees someone has broken into your house. The front door is hanging open, swinging as the wind blows. You desperately search through the house looking for the intruder. With one trembling hands, you hold a knife ready to strike.

There is a man searching through your kitchen cabinets. He hums softly to himself. Under the weight of his breath the tone is hollow and reedy. You're not stupid enough to fight. Look at him vs. you, it's very likely the man could crush you with one hand. So instead you pull out your phone, ready to dial the emergency line.

Before you can finish typing the man says.

'Best not love.' He rolls his neck and you can see the ghostly white plate and mask on his face. He looks at you and then from where you came. 'Don't see how the police can help when you don't even lock your door.'

Slowly he turns around. Distantly you are aware of his one hand in your open bag of chips. He pulls up the front of his mask revealing pale skin. A pink scar hooks around the bridge of his nose. White, silvery old wounds decorate his stubbled chin. One hand reaches up to shovel a handful in his open mouth. His canines are sharp and pointed.

'You're out of liquor,' he says. Loosely he waves at an empty bottle of whiskey that you and your roommate keep for special occasions.

You open your mouth to protest but the man darts forward. His arm wraps around your waist.

He pulls you flush to his hips and you can feel the outline of cock. The man leans in, pressing his nose flush against your neck. It's cold and makes you cry out. Both in shock and terror. From the corner of your eye you can see the man roll his eyes. It is difficult not to lose your cool. Anger bubbles at the back of your throat. But the man loses a warning growl.

'Stay still,' he says and pulls your body closer. In the next few moments there is a silent tension in the room. The man seems content to stand there, holding you close. Acidic fear builds in your throat. You want to strike out or claw out the man's eyes.

'Where's your room,' the man asks. But that line of questioning can lead to nowhere good. You pretend to direct the man's attention away, pointing down the hall. When he turns to look, you bolt. This stranger's reflexes are inhuman. The once loose grip around your waist tightens. White hot pain flares as fingers pinch into your skin. Like a wolf digging its claw into the lamb. A cry breaks free, a tight sound from somewhere deep in your chest. The man shakes his head, and through the eye-holes of his mask you can see his disapproving glare.

'Come,' he instructs. Voice even. You follow his coaxing, unwilling to help the man in any way. Eventually he finds his way to your bedroom. Suddenly and irrationally, there is a trickle of self consciousness in the way your room is decorated. Posters on the wall. Toys and colorful trinkets. The man doesn't seem to care.

Instead he pulls you closer to the bed. Your back presses flush against the mattress. His hips bracket yours, bucking gently. More of a reflex than an actual action. Still, the sensation pushes you into a frenzy. You watch your body, horrified, as a single hand reaches out to claw the man's face. Your nails dig into the stranger's cheek, deep enough to draw blood. He grunts, staring at you with hollow eyes.

'I told you to stay still,' he grumbles. The man pushes hard and you fall flat on the mattress. His body quickly follows after yours, pressing against the expanse of your body. He grins, rolling down your ratty sweat-pants and underwear.

When his thumb pushes down to your clit, you scream. The man doesn't seem to care. He rolls his eyes again, grumbling.

'Lucky I'm doing this for you, princess.' His thumb is rough and sets a biting pace against erogenous skin. Your legs are already shaking and the air has been punched from your lungs.

'Please,' you try to say. You're not sure if you're asking him to stop or continue. You try to convince yourself that you can tolerate this. Maybe close your eyes and imagine this was a one-night stand with a stranger. Then this psycho would hopefully leave and you could call someone for help.

The stranger continues to press his thumb against your clit. Swiping at a pace that makes you see white. His large fingers bully their way into your cunt. He scissors his fingers, lazily prepping you. But it was still prep and you were grateful. The stranger works in a slow fashion. He's far more interested in feeling your skin press against his. The seam of his jeans rut against your hip. Desperate and wanting. He puffs out ragged breaths against the shell of your ear. When the man starts to speak, it begins to ruin your fantasy.

'So good for me.' He grunts, snapping his hips into the meat of your thigh. 'So good for me, my sweet girl. Waiting at home all alone for me to get back.' It seems the stranger had entered this with fantasy of his own. His free hand reaches up to grab the back of your neck. He slots your lips together, all clashing teeth and nipping lips. When he finally pulls back the stranger whispers. 'My sweet girl, taking care of our sweet home.' In reference to his words you try to buck him off. You crane your neck to escape his grip. But the man just snarls, pressing his full weight into your figure.

The feeling is intense. Swiping at your clit, fingers up your hole. A man panting hot against your neck.

'Let me go you fucking mutt,' you screech, punching his ear. The man pulls back but only for a moment. His eyes connect with yours and it is the only warning before his teeth sink into the curve of your shoulder. His canines sink in deep. He shakes his head just to be sure. There will be a scar, he wants there to be a scar. When the man pulls back, his teeth are slick with blood. 'You don't want to do that, Princess. Fighting back against the big bad Ghost. Like a kitten without claws.' He pushes your cheek against the mattress, grappling to rip off your clothes. His finger runs down the plain of your skin. A part of you wants to call it reverent. But truly the man, this Ghost, seems desperate beyond the point of decency. He runs his finger across every groove and blemish in your skin. He's muttering under his breath, deranged.

'My sweet girl. My sweet girl. All mine.' You lay still, unable to allow yourself to breathe. With open, horrified eyes you watch as Ghost feeds his cock into your fluttering hole. You try to pull back, insisting that you don't want it. But instead Ghost shakes his head. 'My best girl. Would never hurt you. Would never want to hurt you.' He exhales, trembling into your shoulder. 'Need this.' He pulls back to look at you, grabbing your chin. 'Please, Princess. I need this and here you are. My girl. I need you.' He's impatient and doesn't wait for you to adjust. Like a length of twine breaking, his hips snap forward.

The next few moments past slow as syrup. Ghost rocks in with slow and shallow thrusts. He doesn't care about how you feel or how he feels. He's just chasing the desperate need to have warm, loving skin against his own.

'I'm sorry,' he chokes out. A glove hand reaches out to press your mouth shut. 'You're so good. My good girl. I need-' with every thrust his words are punched out of his diaphragm. 'I needed you tonight. My princess, I really needed you.' His pace picks up and the rest of his words are drowned out. There's only sound in the room is the joined gasp of your moans and his. "My-" he tries to speak but is cut off. You feel hot cum splash inside your cunt. Ghost pulls out, clumsily wiping his his dick with the hem of his shirt. When he gets up a quiet sob breaks past your lips but Ghost hushes you.