#makarov

ghost 👻

ghost knows you are a nasty little bitch, so he ain't going to stop you from making a mess when sucking him off

ghost will be forcing you to say thank you for fucking you so good as he's balls deep inside

he will fuck you in a place where you know you csn't be loud, just becuse ghost is mean fucker -mlm-

ghost likes pulling your panties to the side as if your cunt were a present he's about to get a taste of

(Caucasus Mountains - Makarov's Safehouse Estate)

Ngl I miss him alot though back then he scares me and is quite attractive hehh~////\\\\\~

“Makarov.”

Y/n’s smile was slow and deliberate as she said his name.

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t welcoming. And it certainly wasn’t false. It was the kind of smile cultivated over years of command and bloodshed—the kind worn by someone who didn’t need to raise their voice to be obeyed. It carried politeness like a sheath carried a blade: necessary, refined, and hiding something lethal beneath.

This was her building. Her office. Her territory.

And she knew it.

The smile said you are a guest, and beneath that, you are alive because I allow it.

“Miss L/n,” Makarov replied smoothly, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge her authority without surrendering his own. His expression mirrored hers in a way that was almost flattering—almost. The same sharp intelligence. The same restrained amusement. Two people who understood that civility was merely another weapon.

She gestured toward the chair opposite her desk with an idle wave of her fingers, rings glinting faintly under the low lights. “Please. Sit. Can I offer you something to drink? Eat?”

Her office was immaculate—dark wood, clean lines, no personal clutter. The windows behind her were tall and reinforced, the city beyond them blurred into distant, irrelevant light. The room smelled faintly of polished leather and expensive liquor. Nothing here existed by accident.

“Vodka will be fine,” Makarov said without hesitation.

Of course it would be. He always knew the correct answer.

Neither of them spared a glance for the butler who immediately slipped from the room, footsteps quick and quiet. He might as well have been part of the furniture. In this space, only the people at the desk mattered.

Y/n leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled loosely, eyes never leaving Makarov’s face. “I have to admit,” she said lightly, “I wasn’t expecting a visit from you so soon after your release. You only just stepped out of prison.”

A small laugh escaped her—soft, controlled, utterly devoid of humor. It was the sound of someone used to power, not someone amused by jokes.

Makarov smiled. “My apologies. I should have given more notice.”

“Apology accepted,” she replied smoothly. “I have nothing particularly pressing at the moment.” She crossed one leg over the other with unhurried grace. “But let’s not insult each other by pretending this is a social call. We both know you didn’t come here for my vodka.”

“No,” he agreed. “Though I’m sure your taste is excellent.”

“Oh?” One eyebrow arched. “If you’re here to ask me to erase you from certain databases, I’m afraid that ship has sailed. Everyone already knows you’re free.”

She watched his face carefully as she spoke. There was no reaction—no surprise, no irritation. Just quiet amusement.

“I wouldn’t want my name cleared,” Makarov said, chuckling softly. “Reputation is far more useful.”

“True,” Y/n nodded. “Then we can skip to the real reason. You want someone dead.”

Most people did. That part never surprised her.

“Yes,” Makarov said easily. “There is a man I want removed.”

She tilted her head, studying him as if he were a painting she’d already appraised once before. “And this man,” she asked, “is someone you can’t deal with yourself?”

His grin widened just slightly. “Lieutenant Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley.”

The name landed like a live round.

Y/n did not flinch. Her expression didn’t change. Years of discipline kept her face composed, her breathing steady, and her posture relaxed. But internally, the calculation began immediately—rapid, ruthless, and precise.

Ghost.

Task Force 141. British. Myth made flesh. A man whose existence was whispered rather than documented. A man whose death would ripple outward in violent, unpredictable ways.

Refusing Makarov outright would strain their alliance. Cost her contracts. Close doors she preferred kept open. In the worst case, it would place her directly on his list one day.

Accepting, however, meant stepping into waters so deep they swallowed reputations whole.

She met his eyes again. “You want me to kill a man who has friends that would personally snap my neck if they so much as suspected my involvement.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of risk.

Makarov understood immediately. “Several organizations in South America want him dead,” he said calmly. “I want their cooperation.”

Y/n exhaled softly through her nose. “I’ve worked with some of them.”

“I know.”

Of course he did.

“Then you also know,” she continued, “how valuable their support is.” Her gaze sharpened. “So tell me why you need him gone.”

She already had her answer, but she wanted to hear how he’d phrase it.

“Weapons,” Makarov said simply. “Influence. Positioning.”

He leaned back in his chair, perfectly at ease. “Nothing that would harm your operations. In fact, it may benefit them.”

That caught her attention.

Her business wasn’t built on volume or chaos. She didn’t flood streets with drugs or arm every fool with a gun. She sold precision. Reputation. Clean work. Contracts fulfilled so quietly that the world never realized something had changed until it was far too late.

Her name carried weight because she delivered results without mess.

Killing, to her, was an art.

She despised sloppy violence—the kind that reeked of emotion and panic. Crimes of passion disgusted her. She preferred elegance. Control. If she left evidence, it was because she wanted to—because watching investigators chase meaningless clues amused her.

She met Makarov’s gaze again, fingers tapping once against the arm of her chair. “Ghost isn’t an easy mark.”

“No,” he agreed. “That’s why I came to you.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and deliberate.

The butler returned, placing the vodka on the desk with careful hands before retreating once more. Y/n ignored the glass.

“You’re asking me to eliminate a symbol,” she said at last. “Not just a man.”

“Symbols die like men,” Makarov replied. “They just scream louder.”

Her lips curved faintly. “And if I refuse?”

“Then we continue our relationship as we have,” he said mildly. “With… limitations.”

There it was. The quiet threat beneath the politeness.

Y/n considered him for a long moment, then lifted her glass and took a measured sip. The vodka burned cleanly, sharp and familiar.

“This won’t be cheap,” she said.

“I wouldn’t insult you by suggesting otherwise.”

“And if I take this job,” she continued, voice even, “it will be done my way.”

Makarov smiled wider. “I would expect nothing less.”

Y/n set the glass down gently. “Then we’ll talk terms.”

Not in agreement. Not yet.

Just the opening move.

And somewhere far away, a ghost remained unaware that two predators had just spoken his name in a quiet office overlooking a city that didn’t know it was about to lose something important.

**********************************************************************

“Who the fuck are you?”

Ghost’s voice cut through the dark apartment like a blade.

The door had barely shut behind him when the instincts kicked in—tight, immediate, undeniable. The air was wrong. Still. Disturbed. He didn’t need to see anyone to know he wasn’t alone. Ghost could tell when a window had been cracked open, when weight had shifted where it shouldn’t have, and when something alive was sharing his space without permission.

The darkness didn’t fool him.

The only sound was the quiet click of a lamp turning on.

Warm light bloomed in the living room, cutting shadows into sharp lines—and there she was.

Sitting in the chair.

His chair.

The only one that ever showed signs of use.

She sat comfortably, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, posture loose but alert. Black jeans—not skin-tight, not sloppy. Practical. A black sweater, old and worn at the edges, sleeves frayed like it had lived a hard life alongside her. Boots that had seen real ground, real miles. Military, but aged. Loved. Used.

Over it all, a lightweight vest—nothing heavy, nothing loud. Quick work gear.

And a sidearm at her hip.

“Someone wants you dead,” Y/n said flatly, frowning slightly as she looked at him.

Ghost didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Of course she’d chosen the chair on purpose.

He shut the door behind him with slow precision and crossed his arms, shoulders squared, every inch of him radiating threat.

“Y/n.”

She smiled faintly. “Simon.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t get to use that name.”

“You used to love it.” A soft, empty laugh left her. “What changed?”

“You.”

He closed the distance in three long strides, reaching for her arm—then stopping himself at the last second. Control snapped tight around his temper.

“Me,” she agreed calmly. “Or Shepherd? Has he tried to kill you yet? Because if he does, I’ve always got room in my company.”

That did it.

“You shot up thirty men,” Ghost snarled, hand shooting out and gripping her arm hard enough to bruise.

She didn’t resist when he yanked her to her feet. Didn’t cry out. Didn’t struggle.

But when he dragged her toward the door, she planted one foot and snapped her heel into the back of his knee.

Hard.

Ghost swore as his grip broke. Y/n twisted free instantly, already moving.

The fight detonated.

No warning. No buildup.

Ghost lunged first, throwing a heavy hook meant to end it early. Y/n ducked under it, barely missing the rush of air as his fist passed where her head had been a split second before. She countered with a sharp strike to his ribs—not full power, but precise. Ghost felt it. Anyone else would’ve cracked.

He answered with an elbow that clipped her shoulder, knocking her off-line.

They circled fast, boots scraping against the floor, furniture becoming obstacles instead of cover. Neither wanted to go down. Ground meant death—pinning, knives, no recovery.

Y/n moved like a blade—light, quick, and constantly shifting angles. She slipped inside his reach, landed a brutal palm strike to his sternum, and then rolled away before his counter could connect.

Ghost hit harder.

Every blow he landed carried weight—bone-shaking force meant to disable, not warn. A punch glanced off her jaw and sent stars flashing behind her eyes. She staggered but didn’t fall, using momentum to spin out of range.

Her breathing was sharp now. His was steady—but faster.

He faked left and caught her with a low kick that nearly swept her. She recovered by instinct, snapping a knee toward his thigh that made him grunt through clenched teeth.

Mistakes. Tiny ones.

They both made them.

Ghost misjudged her speed once—she slipped past his guard and drove an elbow into his side. He paid her back seconds later by catching her wrist mid-strike and slamming her into the wall hard enough to rattle the lamp.

The apartment filled with the sounds of combat—impact, breath, and fabric tearing.

Heart rates spiked. Adrenaline flooded.

Y/n darted backward, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug—caught herself just in time. Ghost pressed, relentless now, forcing her into a tighter space.

Then it happened.

The back of her boot caught under the chair.

His chair.

For a fraction of a second, she couldn’t recover.

Ghost didn’t hesitate.

His hands were on her instantly, driving her backward and slamming her flat to the floor with merciless force. The impact punched the air from her lungs. White flashed across her vision.

She gasped, chest burning, body refusing to respond fast enough—

—and suddenly he was on top of her.

Straddling her hips, weight locked down, knees pinning her legs before she could twist free. A blade appeared in his hand like it had always been there, cold steel pressed firmly against the skin of her neck.

One wrong move and she was done.

Their faces were inches apart.

Ghost’s breathing was heavy now, controlled but furious. Sweat darkened his collar. His eyes burned behind the skull mask—focused, sharp, alive.

Y/n finally dragged air back into her lungs, chest rising under him. She didn’t struggle. Didn’t plead.

Just looked up at him, pulse hammering where the knife rested.

“Well,” she rasped quietly, lips curving faintly despite the position, “guess you’re still fast.”

“Still reckless,” he shot back, pressing the blade just enough to remind her how real this was.

Silence stretched between them, thick and electric, the aftermath of violence humming in the air.

Neither of them had won.

Not really.

And they both knew it.

Ghost felt it before he fully processed it.

A hard, unmistakable pressure pressed into his side—just beneath the ribs, exactly where a shot would do catastrophic damage. His body reacted on instinct, muscles tightening, breath hitching for a fraction of a second.

Her sidearm.

The one he had clocked on her hip the moment the light came on. The one he hadn’t disarmed.

A mistake. A brutal one.

The kind that got men like him killed.

He didn’t particularly fancy bleeding out on his living room floor because he’d underestimated a woman who had broken into his apartment, fought him to a standstill, and now had a gun jammed into his ribs while he held a knife to her throat. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

“Who wants me dead?” Ghost panted, the words dragged out of him between breaths still too heavy from the fight.

Y/n would have tilted her head at that—would have given him one of those knowing looks—if there wasn’t cold steel pressing into the skin of her neck. Instead, she met his gaze steadily, eyes sharp and alive in the low light.

“Many people,” she said simply.

“Gonna have to be more specific than that, love.”

The word was spat like venom.

Once, long ago, he’d said it with warmth. With something dangerously close to affection. Now he wielded it like a blade, fully aware of the way it struck her.

He felt the tension shift in her instantly—just a fraction. Enough to confirm that it still hurt.

Ghost knew things, even now. He knew that if she had come here to kill him, he’d already be dead. A bullet through the skull while he slept. A blade slipped between ribs. Poison in his coffee. She was far too good to let this turn into a struggle.

And yet—

He had seen her gun down soldiers without hesitation. Men she knew. Men she’d trained with. Men who had shared meals and jokes and space with her. He had watched her pull the trigger and walk away without looking back.

Whatever line she once had, she’d crossed it.

Or been pushed.

“Well,” Y/n said carefully, watching his face, “I don’t know every single person who wants you dead by name. But enough of them do that Makarov wants you dead.”

The knife pressed harder into her skin.

Not enough to cut—but enough to promise it.

Right.

Y/n knew, with absolute certainty, that Ghost could kill her. That if he decided to, he wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t flinch, wouldn’t regret it afterward. He’d do what he’d been trained to do and live with it the way he lived with everything else—buried, controlled, locked away.

If he slept at all.

She knew about the sleep.

She’d had time while waiting for him—too much time. Long enough to notice how sparse his apartment was. How nothing here suggested rest or comfort. Long enough to open a cupboard she shouldn’t have and find the sleep aids shoved to the back like an admission he didn’t want to make.

Fire guard habits. Light sleeper. Always half-awake. Always waiting.

“You’ve talked to Makarov?” Ghost said, the question sharpened into an accusation.

“At least he listens,” Y/n snapped back, her voice still controlled despite the circumstances. “At least he lets me speak.”

Ghost didn’t respond.

He didn’t want to.

Because buried just beneath the anger—barely buried at all—was guilt. Raw and uncomfortable and unwelcome.

He hadn’t listened. Not really.

He’d been told she was a traitor. A spy. Dangerous. A liability. Shepard had said it with authority, with certainty, with just enough classified backing to make it sound unquestionable.

Orders had followed.

Kill her. Or bring her in.

Ghost knew—knew—that if he’d ever found her before tonight, Soap wouldn’t have let it end cleanly. Price would’ve demanded answers. Gaz would’ve followed Price without question. Laswell… Laswell had gone quiet when Y/n’s name came up. Too quiet.

She hadn’t helped hunt her.

She also hadn’t stopped it.

Soap, on the other hand—

They’d had to physically restrain him from Shepard. The Scot had been furious, convinced that Y/n hadn’t done anything worse than fight her way out when cornered. He’d been ready to go after her himself—not to kill her, but to find her first.

Ghost had followed orders.

He always did.

“Where is he?” Ghost asked, voice colder now, slipping seamlessly into interrogation mode.

Y/n frowned. “I have a gun on you. Get off me, and we can talk.”

“I can still slit your throat,” he warned.

The gun shifted.

He felt it immediately—felt the line of it realign, felt the angle change until the barrel was pointed at his head.

“Can you still do that with a hole in your skull?” Y/n asked quietly.

The question wasn’t hysterical. It wasn’t shouted. It was calm. Measured. A warning, not a bluff.

They froze.

Neither moved.

Neither breathed too deeply.

The knife hovered at her throat. The gun stayed trained on his head. Their faces were close enough that Ghost could see the faint sheen of sweat at her temple, the way her pupils were blown wide from adrenaline.

Stalemate.

If either of them committed now, they both lost.

“I’ll answer your questions,” Y/n said after a moment. “All of them. But you have to get off me. And you don’t turn me in.”

Ghost said nothing.

“You can’t intimidate me into talking with silence,” she continued evenly. “I went through the same training as you. And I’ve had a lot more guns pointed at my face than you have.”

That landed.

Ghost didn’t know everything she’d been doing since she vanished. He knew fragments. Names that surfaced during interrogations. Whispers pulled out of men who were already broken. Mentions of a woman who handled contracts cleanly and never missed.

He knew she was killing people.

He knew she wasn’t dealing drugs. That didn’t fit her. Never had.

Weapons? Maybe. Carefully. Selectively. If at all.

But the idea that she’d been staring down muzzles more often than him now—that told him everything Shepard never quite said out loud.

Dangerous. Yes.

But not mindless.

Not reckless.

Ghost searched her face, looking for hesitation. Fear. A crack.

There wasn’t one.

Only resolve.

If she wanted him dead, he’d already be a corpse.

Slowly—deliberately—Ghost eased the pressure of the knife. Not removing it. Not yet. Just enough to show he was listening.

“You lie,” he said quietly, eyes never leaving hers, “and this ends.”

“That was always the case,” Y/n replied.

The knife withdrew.

Ghost shifted his weight back just enough to give her room to breathe—still close, still looming, but no longer pressing her into the floor like an execution.

The gun stayed exactly where it was.

Neither of them trusted the other enough to fully disengage.

And both of them knew that whatever came next would change everything.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Ghost’s weight still hovered close, his presence heavy and controlled, his eyes locked on hers. Y/n held his gaze just as steadily, the warning there clear and unmistakable. She didn’t blink. Didn’t rush. She knew better than to make sudden movements with a man like him watching her.

Finally, deliberately, she lowered the gun.

The motion was slow enough that it couldn’t be mistaken for surrender. She slipped the sidearm back into its holster at her hip, the familiar weight settling there like a promise rather than a threat. Only then did Ghost ease back, rising off her with measured restraint, as if any sudden movement might fracture the fragile truce balancing between them.

Y/n sat up, rolled her shoulders once to work the tension out of them, and stood. She didn’t turn her back on him. Not for a second. Her eyes tracked him as she crossed the room and dropped onto the couch in his living room, posture alert despite the casual way she leaned back against the cushions.

She waited.

Only when Ghost moved back to his chair—the worn one, the only one that looked lived in—did she finally speak.

“Ask now.”

Ghost studied her for a long second, jaw tight, mask hiding whatever flicker of emotion crossed his face. Then, flat and direct, “Where is Makarov?”

“I don’t know,” Y/n replied.

His gaze sharpened. “You said you talked to him.”

“I did,” she snapped back, irritation bleeding through despite her control. “That doesn’t mean he handed me directions to his front door. People are paying to see him dead too—he’d be an idiot to tell me where he sleeps.”

Ghost leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “Then Shepard isn’t lying. You’re killing for money.”

The name hit like a match to gasoline.

Y/n’s expression hardened instantly, anger flashing bright and unfiltered in her eyes. For just a second, the composed assassin slipped, revealing something raw and vicious underneath. If Shepard were in the room, she would’ve torn him apart without hesitation—slowly, methodically, savoring every scream. She pictured it without meaning to. Nails ripped free. Skin burned and peeled. All the medals and commendations reduced to ash and bone.

“And what are you doing?” She shot back, leaning forward. “Staring at sheep through a scope? Our job descriptions aren’t that different.”

“No,” Ghost snapped. “You’re a terrorist. I’m not.”

Y/n laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “I wonder what the wives of the men you’ve killed tell their kids,” she said. “What name do they give you?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortable.

Everyone was a hero to someone. A monster to someone else. The labels depended entirely on which side of the gun you were standing on. The men Ghost hunted were terrorists to him. To their families, he was the faceless executioner who caused men to never come back home.

“As it stands,” Y/n continued, calmer now, “I don’t even kill many people you’ve worked with. I stick to criminals.”

Ghost didn’t answer that. His silence was telling.

“What did Makarov talk to you about?” he asked instead.

She blinked once. “I already told you. He wants you dead.”

“He pay you to come kill me?” Ghost tilted his head slightly, voice edged with challenge. “Doesn’t look like you’re really doing that right now, love.”

The word landed exactly where he meant it to.

Her jaw tightened. She narrowed her eyes, hiding the sharp ache that flared in her chest. “No,” she said evenly. “He pays after.”

“So you figured you’d have a chat first?” Ghost pressed, clearly enjoying pushing her buttons now that he had the upper hand. “Maybe line up a few other soldiers while you’re at it?”

That did it.

Y/n stood abruptly. “Clearly,” she said coldly. She snatched a jacket from the floor—one Ghost hadn’t even noticed before—and shrugged it on as she headed for the door. “You don’t want to hear my side. So I’m leaving. Good luck hunting Russians.”

She snorted under her breath, fingers already sliding into the sleeves.

Ghost felt it then.

A sharp, unwelcome spike of panic.

He told himself it was tactical—that he needed more information, needed to know what Makarov was planning, and needed leverage. But the feeling ran deeper than that, curling tight in his chest in a way he didn’t like and didn’t want to examine too closely.

He wanted answers. He wanted context.

He wanted to know where she’d been living, who was protecting her, and whether Shepard or Makarov would get to her first.

He wanted to know if she was okay.

Before he could stop himself, he was moving.

One second she was halfway to the door; the next, Ghost was there, hand snapping around her elbow. She hadn’t heard him cross the floor at all.

Her reaction was instant. Her hand went to her gun, grip firm, trained—

—but he caught her wrists in both hands and slammed her back against the wall, pinning her there before she could clear the holster. The impact rattled the picture frame behind her head.

She struggled, twisting sharply, but he was stronger. He always had been. His grip was iron and controlled, leaving no room for leverage.

“Give me the gun,” Ghost said quietly, breath steady despite the surge of adrenaline. “And tell me your side.”

Her hair slipped loose, strands falling into her face. She glared up at him, chest rising and falling fast.

“I’m not giving you my gun,” she snapped.

Ghost noticed the hair immediately.

Not tied tight. Not secured the way she would if she’d come here planning violence. The realization struck him hard and fast. If she’d intended to kill him tonight, she would’ve prepared better. He’d helped her tie it back once—years ago, before the military forced her to cut it short. He remembered her hands, impatient, fumbling. Remembered fixing it for her.

“I won’t shoot you with it,” he said.

“I’ve heard that too many times to believe it,” she growled.

“Then put it somewhere else,” he replied, voice low, reasonable—dangerously so.

They stared at each other, breath mingling, both acutely aware of how close this could tip back into violence.

Finally, Y/n exhaled sharply. “Fine.”

Ghost released her wrists.

She didn’t turn her back on him as she backed toward the kitchen, movements slow and deliberate. She set the gun down on the counter beside the sink, metal clinking softly against stone, then returned to the couch and sat. She shrugged the jacket off again and tossed it onto the floor like it meant nothing.

Ghost returned to his chair.

They both knew the truth.

Ghost still had a knife on him.

Y/n still had blades hidden where he hadn’t searched.

Neither mentioned them.

There was an unspoken agreement hanging between them now—not just the one about not killing each other, but the older one. The one built on shared training, shared history, and the understanding that if either of them broke their word, it wouldn’t end cleanly.

Ghost glanced down at the floorboards, scuffed but clean.

Getting blood out of wood was a nightmare.

“Start talking,” he said.

And for the first time since she’d walked into his apartment, Y/n nodded.

“Shepard is doing dirty deals with terrorists.”

Y/n said it plainly. No theatrics. No dramatic pause. Just a fact dropped into the space between them like a live round.

Ghost’s posture stiffened immediately. His shoulders squared, spine straightening as if instinctively bracing for impact. Behind the skull mask, his eyes narrowed—not in disbelief, but in calculation. He didn’t interrupt her. Didn’t dismiss it outright. He waited.

“He’s been supplying certain groups with weapons,” she continued, voice tight but controlled. “Arming them so they can wipe out rival factions. Then, when the dust settles and the body count is high enough, soldiers are sent in to clean up what’s left.”

She leaned forward slightly on the couch, elbows resting on her knees now, hands clasped together like she was holding herself in place.

“And do you know who gets all the credit for neutralizing the threat?” she asked, looking up at him.

Ghost hesitated only a second before answering. “Shepard.”

“Yeah.” She laughed, but it was bitter—sharp with anger that hadn’t dulled despite years of distance. “Shepard. The hero general. The man who ‘wins’ wars by letting civilians die first.”

Her jaw clenched. “I found proof. Hard proof. He was selling weapons to the very people we were deployed to stop. The same people blowing up streets. The same people putting bombs in markets and schools.”

Ghost’s arms folded across his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeves. “And you didn’t think to tell anyone?” he asked, suspicion edging into his tone.

“I was going to,” Y/n snapped. “I was on my way to report it when he found out I knew.”

Her eyes darkened, gaze dropping briefly to the floor before snapping back to Ghost’s face.

“And you don’t leave loose ends walking around with that kind of information,” she said flatly. “Not if you’re Shepard.”

Ghost nodded once. Slowly. His eyes were scanning her face, her posture, and the tension in her shoulders—reading her the same way he’d read a hostile room.

“No,” he agreed quietly.

“He sent men after me,” Y/n continued. “Men I knew. Some of them knew what he was doing too—and still chose to protect him. So I ran. Because I wasn’t going to let him put a bullet in my skull just to keep his medals clean.”

She scoffed. “I didn’t even get that far before I was court-martialed and labeled wanted.”

Ghost exhaled sharply through his nose. “And you sent everyone who knew straight to hell.”

“He had too many people,” she shot back. “And once that warrant was out? That was it. There was no coming back.”

Her hands clenched together tighter.

“Besides,” she added, bitterness creeping in, “none of you tried to find me. Shepard fed you his version before I could get a message out, and you swallowed it whole.”

That struck harder than anything she’d said so far.

“So,” Ghost said, voice colder now, “you decided to become an assassin instead of coming back and telling us yourself. Real smart move, Y/n.”

He stood abruptly, chair legs scraping against the floor as he crossed the room toward her, frustration radiating off him in waves.

Y/n stood too, meeting him head-on.

“None of you decided to come help me when you saw I was getting shot at,” she snapped. “I never heard so much as a whisper of any of you trying to track me down. Every time someone came after me, it was one of Shepard’s men—and I had to paint walls with them just to remind him to stop.”

Ghost grabbed her shoulders, grip firm but not crushing, anger flashing hot and unrestrained. “You could have found us. Even after Shepard talked. Price would have listened. Soap would’ve hunted you down if he’d been allowed.”

“And risk getting skinned alive or executed?” Y/n barked a laugh. “No thanks. I like my neck right where it is—attached.”

“Fuck off with that,” Ghost growled. “You chose a life of crime instead of doing something useful?”

“Useful?” she scoffed, yanking herself free of his grip. “I’ve taken down more drug lords, cartel leaders, and terrorist heads than I ever did wearing a uniform. You should try it sometime—no rules, no paperwork.”

Ghost let out a harsh laugh. “Already did, sweetheart. And it wasn’t as easy as you’re making it sound.”

“Skill issue,” she shot back without missing a beat.

Despite himself, his anger wavered—just slightly.

“You can’t keep playing games with all these groups,” Ghost said, tone shifting from fury to something more dangerous: concern. “They will come back for you.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Y/n snapped. “I’ve been doing this for years. I built this from nothing. I’ve got structure. Rules. A reputation. People fear me.”

She stepped closer, eyes blazing. “They can try all they want. They won’t even get close enough to touch me.”

“Y/n,” Ghost said sharply, grabbing her shoulders again—this time not in anger, but urgency. “People in that world don’t get to retire. There’s no walking away. Someone always comes back for revenge.”

He swallowed hard. “I know.”

“And I know there’s a drug lord’s son hunting you,” she fired back. “Why do you think I’ve never worked with him? Why I take contracts on his operation whenever I can without letting my bias show?”

Ghost stiffened.

“You don’t—”

“I know everything, Simon,” she snapped.

The use of his name hit him like a punch.

“I’ve killed enough of the Roba family’s men to piece together the story you’ve only ever told in fragments.”

Ghost’s grip tightened involuntarily.

Her chest rose and fell quickly now. His breathing had changed too—deeper, rougher.

Suddenly, he let go.

He turned away from her sharply and drove his fist into the wall.

The impact was brutal, drywall cracking under the force. Y/n flinched despite herself. She stared at the damage—and then noticed the patches. The repairs. The faint outlines of old holes filled and painted over.

This wasn’t the first time.

Ghost yanked his fist free, flexing his hand. No blood. No broken skin. Just raw knuckles and a man burning from the inside out.

The apartment felt smaller now. Tighter. Like it was holding all of this in with them.

Neither spoke for a long moment.

When Ghost finally turned back to her, his shoulders were tense, his voice low.

“You should’ve told us,” he said.

“I know,” she replied quietly.

“No.”

Ghost’s voice was low and absolute. Not angry—worse. Certain.

“You don’t know,” he continued, stepping closer again, hands returning to her shoulders with an urgency that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with fear. “You really don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, Y/n.”

His grip wasn’t rough. It wasn’t possessive. It was searching.

His hands moved over the exposed skin at her collarbone, thumbs brushing lightly where fabric gave way to flesh—and then he froze.

Scars.

New ones.

His eyes dropped despite himself, cataloguing them the way he always had, the way he couldn’t stop himself from doing. He knew her body better than most people ever would. If Soap had his sketchbook and Ghost had his memory, he could have drawn her perfectly from nothing but recall.

The thin, pale lines at her collarbone were unfamiliar.

And then his gaze caught on the scar at her throat.

His jaw tightened instantly.

He didn’t need to ask what had caused it. A blade. Close. Too close. Someone had tried to slit her throat—and failed.

Barely.

“You don’t know how persistent the Roba family is,” Ghost growled, anger flaring sharp and protective now. “I tore them down completely, and they’re still coming. They don’t stop.”

“He had a lot of kids,” Y/n shrugged.

The movement shifted his hands slightly, knuckles tightening against her shoulders.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Ghost snapped. “And the only thing people will remember is that you were a criminal assassin. Hell—knowing the media, they’ll paint you as a drug dealer too.”

“I don’t deal drugs,” Y/n shot back immediately.

“The media doesn’t care,” he said quietly. And this time—this time—when he added “love,” it wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cruel. It was heavy with truth.

“Those of us who know who you really are?” he continued. “We don’t get long, peaceful lives. There won’t be anyone left to remember you as who you actually were.”

“And who’s that?” she scoffed, defensive instinct kicking in.

Ghost didn’t hesitate.

“A smart woman,” he said. “A resourceful one. Someone who hunts criminals instead of letting them hide behind money and influence.”

His voice softened—not weak, not unsure. Just honest.

“A woman who still tries to do the right thing, even when she’s forced into the wrong side of it. Someone stubborn as hell, with a sharp mouth and a sharper mind. Someone who can drink whiskey like it’s sugar water and still walk straight.”

Y/n blinked.

Once.

Then again.

She hadn’t realized how close he was until that moment—how his presence filled her space, how the warmth of him pressed into the air between them. Her heartbeat spiked so suddenly she was sure she could feel it in her throat.

“What?” she asked, a little breathless.

“You heard me,” Ghost said quietly. “You have to stop playing games with criminals, love. You’re going to get yourself killed out there. Alone.”

Her heart steadied as understanding settled in.

He believed her.

Really believed her.

And just like that—he was treating her the same way he had before everything had gone to hell. Protective. Honest. Infuriatingly stubborn.

“I can’t go back,” she said, frowning. “They’ll have me in cuffs before you could hoot like an owl.”

“I’ll talk to the others,” Ghost said immediately. “Price can get Laswell to clear your name. Or kill Shepard himself—whichever comes first.”

“I’d like to be the one to do that,” Y/n muttered.

“Price claimed it first.”

“Was he drunk?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“If he was drunk, it doesn’t count.”

Ghost stared at her for a moment—then reached up and caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to look at him. Her expression was lighter now. Happier. Softer than when he’d walked into the apartment.

He didn’t hate that.

“Then I suppose he’ll have to claim it again,” Ghost said dryly.

“Too late,” she replied. “I already wrote it out.”

“Who read that?”

“I mailed it to Santa. Christmas wish.”

“I don’t think you’re on the nice list.”

“And you are?” she challenged.

“Never have been,” Ghost smirked.

Then he leaned down.

He didn’t rush it.

Ghost never rushed anything that mattered.

His forehead brushed hers first—barely there, a grounding point. A breath passed between them, slow and steady, like he was giving her time to pull away if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

His thumb slid gently along her jaw, the pad of it warm against her skin, tilting her face just enough. His lips brushed hers once—soft, tentative, like he was checking that she was real.

Then again.

This time slower.

Deeper.

Not demanding. Not hungry. Just there.

Y/n’s eyes fluttered shut without thinking. Her hands rose instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself. The world narrowed to warmth and breath and the quiet hum of something fragile being held carefully between them.

Ghost kissed her like he did everything else—controlled, deliberate. Every movement chosen. His lips moved against hers slowly, almost reverently, like he was memorizing the feeling. Like he was afraid it might disappear if he didn’t.

There was no rush for dominance. No desperation.

Just connection.

When he pulled back slightly, it wasn’t to break the moment—just to breathe. His forehead rested against hers, noses brushing, breaths mingling.

Then he kissed her again.

Longer this time.

She responded immediately, lips parting as her grip tightened, and Ghost let out a quiet breath against her mouth—something close to relief. His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, careful of the scars, careful of her.

It was sweet.

But sweet in their way.

Muted intensity. Shared history. Unspoken understanding.

No promises. No lies.

Just two people who had survived too much finding something steady in each other again.

When they finally parted, Ghost stayed close, eyes still closed for a moment longer—like he was committing it to memory.

“You’re not alone,” he said quietly.

Cw: DARKFIC, kidnapping, forced relationship, tell me if I missed any.

“милая,” Makarov - or your father as he liked to call himself - sighed exasperatedly, his dark eyes glued to your figure, “You’ll eventually need to listen, the world isn’t a safe place.” [Darling]

He watched you roll your eyes, acting like a petulant child despite the years you’ve spent by his side. Five years in and you still fought him at every turn. You were studious, smart and quick-learning, but you feigned oblivion - faked stupidity - just to enrage your tutors enough to force them to leave, if not, you’d force their hand by thinning their already strained patience until they cracked.

He’s been forced to hire different tutors again, and again, and again, the unending cycle of hiring and quitting weighing on his mind more than it did on his wallet. Although they left within the first few months, Makarov learned that you had caught on, however small you were taught was ingrained in your mind. Perhaps not a photographic memory, but a fast and good one.

“And that’s because of who, huh?” you scoffed, crossing your arms and slouched on your chair, the plush fabric moulding to fit your shape, “Cuz last time I checked, I lived a perfectly safe life with mom.”

You stared idly at the plate, the perfectly cooked steak with sauce and spice peppered with perfection and vegetables decorating the sides as if your diner was a piece of art. You always complained about what a waste of time and money it was to be spending on embellishing food when it’d end up disfigured and cut and digested, but to him, it was all about the image. Maybe it was different for you —it certainly was. Everything in his organisation was about the strong image he held, and you were just a part of it: his rebellious and angry daughter, but smart and independent, quick on her feet and silver-tongued with her words.

That made him the proudest. How people underestimated you, spoke in Russian and let a few secrets slip when they were near you simply because you’d never bothered to speak the language or hadn’t grew up beside him. Everyone knew you were his bastard-turned-princess daughter, but you looked like an angry child, moody and childish, untaught and too western to understand them.

“You weren’t, милая,” he shook his head, cutting into his medium rare steak, admiring the pale red that oozed around the cut, “It’s safer for you here —with me. They would have found you, perhaps not then, but later, one day.”

He couldn’t afford losing a piece of himself to his enemies or allies-turned-traitors, to willingly hand them his precious child. So he reached out first, took you in and made sure you were taught from the best. Where you lacked in ballet and dance and piano, you excelled in academics and martial arts. You fought him on it, but still attended these class, knowing that it would only help you. You were stubborn, but not dumb, something he loved about you.

“Eat, you have a new tutor coming in an hour.”