Archive of Our Own ^beta

A Mirage can be many things: A body of cool water in the middle of a desert forever out of reach, an assassin in the dead dark of the night on a rooftop, playing a long-range trick on the naked eye. A glimmer of light reflecting off hot pavement before the sun sets, all disappearing the moment you get too close.

People could say that the words ghost, or mirage have pretty similar meanings; Teachers, scholars, any literary master with a book glued to his hands, but not towards those who took the names to identify themselves by.

You wished you could say you worked hard to earn that name, which you respectfully did. Codenames were earned, like silent badges that either honor or ridicule you. Once the name was put to the wind, it permanently stuck ever since.

Regardless of what you expected yourself to excel at, your top specialty was your excellent aim, always volunteering to take the liberty of scouting long range as a n extra pair of eyes to any squad you were assigned to. Call it cowardice, if you will. You stuck to what you were good at. 

In a group of snipers, you would take lead and properly communicate with your team. If you ended up alone, albeit rarely, you gladly did so. 

Your actions didn’t go unnoticed, gaining the attention of those who took an interest in your talents. You couldn’t fully admit publicly that you were proud, believing that karma could come back and bite you in the ass one day, but you definitely felt a swell in your chest with every compliment that flooded your earpiece.

Minimal, but appreciative. Simple motto. 

You followed your orders and did what you were told, not expecting much in return. You'd either go home a hero or a blissful memory, your last name hanging off the breath of an assigned soldier carrying a folded flag. 

You couldn’t exactly remember when you found yourself working alongside the men of Task Force 141, arriving as an extra set of hands with excellent aim for a snipers' post. While being unaware if any of the higher ups had officially approved it, you doubt they were going to say anything against it now.

You knew little of their captain at the time, but he definitely wasn’t complaining with extra hands accompanying his men.

Temporarily catching their names and appearances in the dead cover of night, you assimilated yourself in the dead covers of high grassy stalks alongside your team. The task grew easier after crawling towards any hidden, camouflaged sniper within the cliffs, knives jammed through their very necks one by one, severing vocal cords before they could even scream out their alarm. 

"One down." Your far companion murmured from your far left, followed the few others before you. 

"Two."

"Three."

"Four," Came from you after a moment of struggle, warm blood splattering the dirt whilst a rustle within the nearby shrubbery alerts you. The bulk of his shadow too foreign, the hairs along your neck raising in unfamiliarity. 

"Eyes peeled, Price counted five snipers-"

"Five." You cut off the Scotsman after a momentary roll in said foliage, pushing yourself off the armor padded back of the sniper who tried to retreat from the ambush. 

A faint cackle erupts from the Sargeant, recalling your voice from your albeit short greeting prior. Quiet woman, not an ounce of humor behind your tired, shrouded eyes. Reminds him of someone of the opposite sex and a few feet taller than either of you combined. 

"Copy, She-Ghost."

Pure silence met his response for a short while, a quiet mumble from a scowling Lieutenant on the opposite end of Soap's position. You weren't sure how to respond to that, not meaning you weren't used to that kind of sarcastic humor from others, but why exactly that?

Why She-Ghost? None of your enemies saw you coming. Soap had that answer in mind in case you asked, but you didn't.

Not that you weren't already confused enough as it is, wondering exactly the Sargeant meant by that kind of reply. You could only imagine the short cackling of your teammates scarcely spread out from your location. 

You’re pretty sure this 'Ghost' had his own name and reasoning trademarked under lock and key. There wasn't anything common between the both of you, let alone enough to share a code name. 

“She-Ghost sounds... kind of sexist, by the way.” You couldn’t help but pitch into the silence that followed after. You were used to the humor, but you weren't good at it. 

“It does not.” Soap retorted, amusement sparking from his whisper.

“It does.” You retaliate, cheesing a little further. 

“Enough,” The gruffy voice of his Lieutenant spoke up, curt and annoyed, wanting to shut down any future commentary on the topic, reminding everyone to focus on the mission at hand.

"What, worried I'm makin' her sound like yer sister?"

No response came from the man, encouraging a further spark of irritation from the jester of his teammate.

“You’re right. I just remembered yer’ old enough to be her dad.” Soap retorted, making you bite your lip to suppress a short scoff.

“Thanks for makin' me feel young, Johnny.” The Lieutenant couldn't help himself, albeit momentarily, before resuming to their intended mission.

A sharp buzz sparked through comms, vanishing as quick as it arrived. The eeriness that followed suit shot unease through various spines, mutating into alarm as it occurred once more, accompanied this time by a man's chopped yelp from an unwitnessed struck. 

"Charlie team-" An alerted Captain's voice broke through comms before the rustle of grass rushed towards your far right, a dark shadow striking someone from the corner of your right. 

Heart pounding in your ears, your head spins around, seeing a flashlight catching sight of your boots before nearly blinding your face. In an attempt of defense, you raise your secondary gun towards the enemy, a single bullet piercing alarm in the dead cover of the night. 

"Captain!" Your voice rings through comms, hushed in breach of panic. "Positions- We're compromised-!!" 

A piercing pain dulls your head, a blunt force blurring your vision to white. In your haste, you neglected to see the other unknown soldier creeping behind, striking you once more with the butt of his rifle, striking you unconscious before you could hear the shouts of your last name in your left ear. 

A rich, dank burning odor flooded your nostrils, stale copper and wet dirt accompanied by the taste of dry fabric on your tongue, your stiff arms and piercing headache rousing you from an unknown state. Your vision came second, dark and dreary, your eyes refusing to make any sort of sense with your surroundings. That was until a sharp, ice cold splash of water struck your face, rushing up your ose and drenching your clothes, searing adrenaline forcing you awake. 

Various unknown faces flooded your vision, heavy wrinkled faces with one carrying a lit cigar in between his lips. You felt alarmingly bare within your bound wooden seat, everything stripped except your soaked rags clung to your body, the act of speech lost on the wet cloth bound between your teeth. The only source of light hanging from a low voltage bulb over your head, illuminating your bruised face for those to see. 

The cigar smoker approached from his line of three other men, a trace of familiarity echoing your thoughts from a photo during a short debrief, the old man being the very target himself. His hand grabbed ahold of your jaw, forcing your head further up to look at, removing his cigar to speak in a language you didn't fully understand, one you cared little to learn just yet. What he asked held question, ones you didn't answer for an obvious physical reason. Maybe his intent wasn't to be answered, making sure you were at least aware enough to be confused. 

Stepping to the side, his guides your head towards a propped camera a few feet away from you. A tiny red light in the corner confirming your worst suspicions. 

Upon this daunting realization, a muffled series of shouting erupted from the next wall over, loud enough to sound ever so close from a few rooms down. The silence that followed suit was a savor to your captors, relishing in their crude success in your teams’ turmoil. Saying you were scared was a ridiculous understatement. You were at mercy to the group of men inside this room, inside a building in the middle of God knows where, who planned to do Hell knows what before sending the video off to your team.

Their intent might’ve been even to have this broadcasted live to their comrades, setting an example to what happens to enemy soldiers, especially women, for fighting against them. You were tortured inside that small, dimly lit room for what felt like hours, maybe even longer. There was no way to tell time, your straining hands kept tightly bound behind the backrest of the wooden chair.

Your body ached in hot agony from consistent punches along various parts of your body, accompanied by heavy accents hurling harsh insults you couldn’t bother to register. Your gag prevented you from biting down on your tongue, your vision rendering to black at various moments, blurred by searing tears. To little surprise, said leader got smart enough to approach once more, reaching behind your head to pull at the crude knot keeping you gagged to their nonsense. Only comfort it provided was a minor relief of breathing through your mouth better, rather than a bloodied nose. 

“Hurts, yeah?” His voice rasped, rancid breath stinging your face. Grasping a fistful of your hair, you met his gaze, repeating the same words in angry shout. 

Your only response was to huff, the corners of your lip curling in a refrained, amused expression. 

This, all of this was pointless. 

You were just a soldier, a sniper. What kind of military secrets or special series of literary nonsense did they expect you had? Why the constant questions? What was the reason other than unbridled ignorance? 

You were going to die, you knew that. How much longer was it going to be dragged out? 

Of course, this bastard wasn’t satisfied with your response, a click of his tongue followed his release of your head. Extending his hand behind him, a mutter to his comrade followed with being gifted a knife into his palm. Your mind proceeded to assume how painful it would be to bleed out if he was smart enough to know where to stick it. Crude to wonder, you had no other worry than that, rather than toying with the idea of being saved. 

No warning came from his raised hand, no word of warning when the serrated blade came swiping down against the side of your face. A sharp, hot sting slicing through muscles under the skin, deepening further down to your cheek bone, down to your bottom lip. 

Your scream was deafening, the pain unlike any you’ve ever experienced. The culprit was quiet, brandishing a lighter to further ignite his cigar. Leaning down once more, a sharp, thick cloud of singed smoke left you choking, lacking enough oxygen to cry out as bright, painful embers were pressed against your upper cheek. A putrid sizzle of burning copper and expensive tobacco, cauterizing your fresh wound with ashes decorating your bloodied skin, smearing down in a crooked line of dappled, dead embers. 

“Hurts, no??” The man seethed, taking amusement to your fit of choked alarm, further embedding his cigar deeper into your exposed, fleshy pink nerves.

“You talk now, huh?? Now??” 

What could you have even said to register his response once the ruined cigar left your face, a dreary mess of blood and saliva dripping down your bottom lip. Each tear that strolled down your cheek further burned your skin, the saltiness colliding with petrified flesh. 

Every single person in this room could go to hell, even if you screaming it out to them in twisted speech meant nothing, that’s all you could come up with. 

Another shout erupted against your face, the same repeats of broken English permeating in between your croaked cries, vision nearly blind from smoke and pain. Thinking of nothing else, you spat out a crude mix of spit and blood, splattering the lower half of the man’s mouth. 

Disgusted enough, a sharp strike hit the opposite side of your face, leaving you in your stunned, pitiful state. 

In his heavy accent, he ordered at his men some words before leaving the room. With haste, you were yanked from your seat by two pairs of hands, grasping over each arm to haul you to their level, your heavy boots dragging against dirt ground. 

Despite your weak state, your vision nearly blinded by a dreary red hue and polluted smoke, you couldn’t help the slight looseness from your heavily sprained wrists, the cheap adhesive giving away gradually from the water bath prior. 

You would think that their expensive taste in cigars meant that they could afford better quality tape, a cruel thought that rang ironic in your disoriented state. You didn’t know where you’d be taken to, but you knew you were going to die here in this crudely makeshift bunker, far from salvation. 

No soldier would have remembered your name well enough to even put your name on a log, but you know what? To hell with it. 

You may have been seconds away from death for what you were about to do, but you weren’t going to die without an attempt to fight. 

With one hand free, you urged your foot to grip firm along the floor, momentarily stunting your captors from their trail. Grasping what remained of the weak duct tape in your hand, unhooking your arm from the right man’s grip, you urge yourself behind the next attacker,pulling the tape over the closest man’s neck to act as a last-minute choker. 

Tugging as hard as you could with additional help from your body weight, you hear the immediate click of a gun fire in your direction, missing you entirely in regards to your new meat-shield. 

With the weight of the slumping body in your arms, heaving it forward with all of your strength, it stuns your attacker long enough for your free hand to grasp the gun. With your now victim nearly crumbling underneath his friend’s weight, he collapses entirely with three bullets directly into his skull. 

A faint rumble shakes the ground under and overhead, sending minor cascades of dirt and pebbles along various corners of the corridor. Your goal ultimately being an exit, you proceed to stumble back the way you came from, skin shivering with polluted water, blood and sweat. 

Despite the thick, crusted blood stuffed in between your nostrils, you caught whiff of a crude, grotesque odor in the air. A crooked singe of burning smoke, like charred, sizzling pig’s fat. 

You take notice of the few doors that decorated the short hallway, a strange glimmer spewing from the short window frame in the upper top of the door. Curiosity nearly killed you as you cautiously peaked inside, witnessing a scene that would be burned in your mind forever. 

Inside were two chairs faced opposite from each other, two slumped bodies of your comrades bound together by rusted chains. Beside them was a short table with a big bulky battery, connected by opposite color jumper cables clamped together. The lingering smoke emanating from the top of their heads signified their death was recent, a shadow of the screams that echoed alongside your torture now long gone. 

The site was putrid, dreadful, horrifying. Bile spewed from the back of your throat, struggling with the scene altogether, let alone the stench. Whether your death was to be met in a similar manner or not, you couldn't give up just yet. Death may still have been on the table, but it could wait a little longer. 

A shadow of movement sparked your head towards the right, immediately falling after two bullets before he could draw his own weapon. Rushing forward, you stumble back towards your prior room, nearly dodging a shout of bullets that sparked against the doorway.  The culprit wasn’t the cigar smoking bastard that brought you here to begin with. It was one of his men, the one who gladly gave the knife in result to play out more of your torture. You could only hide and listen until a faint click signified a reload, urging you forward to fire the last bullets you had. 

A blunt sting struck the back of your head once you entered through the doorway, cold metal of a barrel forcing your gun to fall. A sharp ring pierced your right ear, a bullet striking the closest table you nearly fell against. 

Your eye catches a familiar glimmer of a knife so carelessly thrown on the surface, still idly stained with your blood. With a gun moments away from striking you in the back, you made a last ditch attempt at saving yourself, turning yourself with quickened haste to toss the knife in the direction of your attacker. 

Sharp shouts fill the air as the blade strikes the attacker in the left eye, his head tilting back with gaped horror. His finger pulls the trigger, sending a sharp bullet towards your lower left side, forcing out a cry. 

You cower, you scream with all remaining air in your lungs, while you lunge yourself forward, crooked arms braced against his lower abdomen as you shove him back, collapsing over him onto the mud dampened floor. 

Either revenge driven cockiness or pure, pain fueled spite led you to drive the knife into the dying man’s eye. Pulling it out was harder than shoving it in, thinking little for the viscera and blood that stained your skin as you stabbed against his gullet, his dying breath choked between serrated steel. 

The knife retracts, finding further sanction straight into his chest, scraping past his sternum to slice in between brackets of bone, piercing his right lung. Over and over, blood spews out from in between your fingers, staining every surface available in vicinity. 

You screamed out your rage with every blunt, forced jab, repeatedly scraping against rib bones and the meaty muscles of his heart. Pure bloodlust preventing you from registering the ache of your own bruises, the harsh sting of several hundred severed muscles in your cheek, straining painfully with your cry, but you didn’t let it stop you.

The faint thud of the camera falls on deaf ears; the cracked lenses capturing an angle of your slouched body sitting over his, witnessing every second of violence and further bloodshed. 

A sudden rush of footsteps permeated down the corridor, coming to an abrupt halt with rifles momentarily pointed in your direction. Those who paused had witnessed the gruesome sight of a bloodied blade repeatedly jamming into the breast of a dead soldier, as well as the woman who loomed over him abruptly halting there after. 

Your head rose, your blurred vision momentarily giving away to the sight of a tall, darkly dressed soldier. The strange, tell-tale sign of his eggshell painted mask giving away to his hidden identity, death himself arriving a little too late, but not soon enough.  Another familiar face brandished himself into view, puffy hair slicked back from sweat, dirt kissing his skin from unbeknownst chaos up above. It wasn’t long before your slumped shoulders gave away to relief, adrenaline proceeding to drop as quickly as it had arrived. 

“Bloody Christ,” The Sargeant's comment came through a heavy mutter, pushing his rifle aside the second your weakening body rolled off your victim, knees wobbling along the dirt floor. 

Part of you felt urged to ask what had taken them so long, but you couldn’t even muster so much as a question, let alone a couple of words rolling off your dry tongue. 

“Woah woah,” the Sargeant urged the moment you attempted to rise from the floor, sweat stained palms caked with dirt as your body hunched over, trying to make use of your legs to little avail.  He approached within a second, cautious arms reaching forward to support your body without touching you just yet in fear of your body collapsing. 

“Easy lass,” Soap urges, watching your face further contort from the pressure growing too much for your body. Blood pooling further along your shirt, leaving him to question just how bad the damage was. 

Something had to be broken, judging by your slow rasp with each hitched breath. A plethora of possibilities, broken bones or blood clotted airways, but you were still standing. 

“Think they broke one of her ribs, Lt,” he chides towards his Lieutenant, temporarily distracted from a flickering red light in the corner of his eye. 

“Punctured lung sounds more like it,” Ghost curts, approaching the abandoned tech on the ground. 

Besides the obvious, the possibilities of what else it could’ve captured on video was vital. 

Important discussions between the enemy’s next hideout location, any scrap of intel worth keeping on file for where the target fled. All within the tiny card he plucked from the crevice of the device. Ghost said nothing of the time that continued rolling, the number of hours you and your comrades were left in the shadow of your captors. 

It was a miracle you were still alive before it could’ve gotten worse. He wasn’t a fool to how these men treated women, especially prisoners.

“I didn’t think... didn’t think you guys would come for me,” You trembled with bated breath, a tense pain in your chest blooming from under your ribs, like a belted corset growing tighter and tighter by the minute. 

You couldn’t have been the last. It was impossible, a small team of six members couldn’t have been taken out just like that. You didn’t wish to dance around the idea of believing it, you couldn’t have been the only one who makes it out of this alive.  Your assumption for your lack of hope for salvation wasn’t didn’t startle Ghost as much. He thought the exact same way before in various similar situations he had found himself in long before. A diminishing hope from a struck match that died long ago. 

Forget the dead sods, you were a horrific sight alone. Various bruises hidden underneath your ruined, bloodstained clothes, your chin still dripping from copious ripples of blood from your dirtied gash across the majority of your face.  Your eyes sunken in divots of black and blue, delicate irises shrouded in a pool of bright red. Beaten, bloodied, beautiful. Alive .

“And lose the best sniper we got on our watch?” Soap chides, encouraging your arm over his broad shoulders as he helped raise you to your feet, mindful of his hands irritating any further wounds he didn’t see. 

Ghost approached, neither confirming or denying what was spoken, grease painted eyes staring down at the state of your overall well-being. 

“Let’s get you out of here, kid.”

His voice was the last sound you registered before pure exhaustion overwhelmed your senses, the sharp sting of fresh air and harsh winds from helicopter blades whirring in the evening skies falling as a distant dream of sorts. A far away, surreal memory that left you reliving the pain with each and every thought of it. 

Physical recovery was its respectable own time period, leaving you at the strict mercy of medics on base to tend to your injuries. A punctured lung, slightly cracked ribs, painfully strained wrists, multiple bruises and then some. 

You could hardly stand the stitches along your skin from your luckily shallow gunshot injury. The worst experience yet when your face had to be cleared of debris; sterile water burning as hot as rubbing alcohol on your gaping cheek, hands pitifully grasping along the edge of your bed. 

Rounds of antibiotics, minor runs of physical therapy, painfully tedious visual tests for your ever so important eyesight. With sheer luck, you’d be back on the field within a period of long months, but for you, that wasn’t soon enough. 

Time dragged further on each day you had to wear bandages along half of your face, stitches laced with ointment to keep out infection. The sight alone in the mirror each night rendered you sick, even after the stitches were removed. Each long second you stared had only brought you back towards that night, towards the faces of your team you couldn’t save, towards the bastard you could’ve killed a whole lot sooner if you were given the chance. 

It all ached, weighing terribly on your shoulders, returning the searing hot pain against your skin, your back and wrists nearly spasming from the memory of your confined position.  It was the last time you looked into a mirror; you told yourself then and there. You needed a distraction, what other distraction did you have in the military? 

It took a good few weeks until you were back on your feet in another mission, clutching your rifle to your chest as turbulence rattled the walls around you.  The short cackling of your teammates bustle in your ears, speaking amidst one another as you sat in silence, listening and yearning for the chance to prove you were still a capable soldier. The single lone survivor from a small team of six, you couldn’t let that leave you bedridden and useless. 

You couldn’t render yourself useless, that’s not what you signed up for. You weren’t going to let a couple of cuts and bruises bring you down. Not like this. 

Your persistence was what stuck out to Ghost the second your face appeared in the debriefing room, to much little surprise towards your Captain. 

This mission had originally been to apprehend the previous target from their failed mission months ago, the very target that butchered your face beyond recognition towards new recruits, enforcing a new picture for your log file. 

From the very start, Ghost knew it was a bad idea. Terrible to seek revenge for the sake of vanity, or survivor’s guilt. Call it what you will, in his eyes it was too damn soon for you to rejoin the force, but he said nothing of it. 

It was his own damn mistake to recognize merely hours later, a bullet shattering the glass pane of the target’s bedroom window, an unauthorized fire from your bloody rifle… 

And you had missed . 

Chaos ensued from the small villa, a quiet paradise high and secluded in the mountains, trifling high with security. All of Ground teams’ lives were nearly cost, long weeks of scouting and searching to find one of the bastard’s many hideouts, all for failure. All ruined by your own impatient ignorance and pursuit for the satisfaction of tying up a loose end. 

Even as the smoke cleared, a quick infiltration alerted everyone as far above as your high vantage point that the culprit had long escaped. Scouts confirmed after learning of a secret passageway in the villa’s basement, one that led far out towards a secluded exit leading to an empty lot far below. Some questioned if he was even there to begin with, but you knew better than to play dumb alongside your angry stupidity. 

A fucking grave mistake that surely wouldn’t go unpunished. 

It took him a while to find you after landing, to be frank. His eyes bore direct holes on you the entire ride back to base, quiet fury rendering your comrades dead silent. Multiple glares brandished in your direction from those who seethed, but the silent Lieutenant left you feeling more determined to cower away and hide like a child. 

When it came to following you down the ramp, bustling bodies melding in between one another driven by anxious exhaustion, became a momentary stunt on his vision to locate you. Like a damn illusion, he nearly lost you entirely, resorting to finding you in the one place you’d cower towards. 

Your steps were sluggish, heavy soles scraping against scraped vinyl as you opened your room door, a quiet dark room greeting your arrival. Silence gave way to your sniffles, nose filled with dirt and moisture from your irritating shame. 

“You were entirely out of line.” 

A low, heavy tone erupts promptly from behind you, forcing a harsh jolt from every bone in your body. Your alarmed expression meets his dreary, cream colored mask, dark eyes boring down on you with a sneered narrow, intended emotion dripping further from his words. 

“I’ve no damn clue as to why you perceive yourself capable of picking up a weapon, if you don’t know how to bloody use it.” 

He didn’t raise his voice, not yet at least, but his echo throughout your small room rang louder than expected. His strong statement struck a nerve with you the second you unclipped your harness and utility belts, yanking it all off your shoulders to let it loudly drop on the floor. 

“Let alone follow damn orders,” Ghost proceeds, taking a step or so forward, instinctively forcing you to move back, insisting on the distance further in between you both. 

“I”m not—“

“You do not have permission to speak.” Ghost interrupts, barking his stern order to render you silent. Fighting a scowl, you keep quiet, forcing yourself to obey. 

But, knowing you, you couldn’t. 

“Like I said, since following orders isn’t—“

“I’m aware, Lieutenant,” you talk over his words, enforcing your point. “You don’t have to repeat it—“

“I’ll keep repeating it until you realize your goddamn mistake!” Ghost barks out, nearly breaking from his persistent spot in front of the doorway. With the angle he stood, it took a deep squint to see his narrowed eyes beyond that stupid mask of his, leaving limited emotion rushing in his tone. 

“Our target got away, an’ your recklessness nearly got Alpha team killed! It took longer than your recovery period to find him, and just like that, it’ll take even longer to locate the bastard, now hidin’ away in one of his damn holes!”

Silence followed suit once more, the faint streams of light illuminating your irritated face just enough, biting down the inner meat of your bottom lip to keep quiet. To that part, you had to listen, all because it was true. 

“I’ve seen you at your best once before, kid. After today, you're back down on the very bottom. If I so much as hear word of your effort to make it back out on the field, I’ll make sure your discharge is immediate. Am I clear?”

His immediate threat forced a chill down your spine, your jaw tensing in an instant scowl. 

“Am I clear?” He repeats, each word promptly pronounced to prove his point. Your intended silence left him scowling heavily at your cheekiness. 

“Speak.” He demands, encouraging you to finally open your mouth. 

“I’m not letting this prevent me from doing my damn job.” 

That sentence alone was met with additional silence, his fists clenched by his sides. Exhaling, he gives up on the idea of giving you a second chance, turning his head with intention of leaving. 

“You’re discharged until further notice—“

“No!” You bark out, your own anger boiling over before you could properly hold back your tongue. Ghost directs his head back, witnessing your frantic steps closed in defiance to his decision. 

He had a point; even you knew that. The mission failed because you were too ignorant to wait for orders, a clear shot from a scope didn’t mean you counted for wind directory or angle precision from your rifle. Tell-tale basic fucking standards with being a sniper, and you cast it all aside like nothing. 

“You are nearly responsible for a battalion of lives lost!” Ghost barks back, gesturing with a pointed finger towards the outwards direction of the exit. His strong statement further solidified your faults deep into your chest, deeper than a bullet or knife blade could reach. 

“Don’t you think I’m well aware of that??” Nearly screaming out towards your superior was a direct statement of how far the line was crossed, but a part of you didn’t care. 

You didn’t see a Lieutenant currently berating you down for your blatant stupidity leading to a deadly mistake. You saw a tall, costume dressed man invading your privacy, dismissing your years of service in an instant, believing your errors must’ve run due to something idiotic. 

Lack of patience, loss of beauty. You didn’t care for his thoughts, or superficial scars that meant you’d never return home a beauty queen. In your eyes, from the second you wake up, your mind shrouds with the names and faces that died beside you. Faces of those who’s bodies either hung or burned in dank, forgotten rooms, until their killer was dead in a ditch somewhere. 

“I’m aware it’s my fault! All it takes is one look in the mirror and suddenly I’m back there, seeing that— that bastard laugh in my face before he burned it!”

His gaze flickered towards your cheek without direction, eyes tracing along the rosy, fleshy pink scar dotted with crude circular patches, forever darkened more than the rest. Unbeknownst to you, he understood more than you’d care to realize. 

The silence that followed suit left you more uncomfortable by the second, an unbridled amount of shame flooding your body the longer Ghost stood there staring at you. 

There was nothing you could do about it now, he had already decided you weren’t returning to the field. Unsure if he even had the capability of making that choice, what else could you do? 

You fucked up, simple as that. The culprit was wandering free and alive in seclusion all because of you, nothing could change that fact. 

Stepping forward, you quickly make your way towards the restroom door. You’d assume he’d leave, either irritated or pleased with himself for stripping you of your pride. The whole interaction left a deep burn in the pit of your chest, creeping up into your lungs and the back of your throat, piping full of words left unsaid. 

The old, creaky sink barely managed to spew out a few ounces of water before the door burst open, further enforcing a jolt of panic throughout your body upon sight of the tall brute treading in. 

“Jesus-! What the fuck?!” You’re stunted, left with wet hands grasping the sink as his shadow towered over you. The small bathroom grew even more claustrophobic upon arrival of his armored, bulky frame merely a couple inches away. 

“We’re not done until I dismissed you,” came his response, an arrogant driven statement delivered via his intimidating accent. 

“This issue of yours, this personal vendetta has completely clouded your judgement—“

“I never fucking asked for a one on one with you!”

“Yeah? Well, now you got one.” 

Ghost breaches your limited personal bubble in this confined space, a dim limited light from outside the bathroom gifting you with barely the outline of his shadow, his head cocking towards the mirror in front of you. 

“Look.” He orders, in which you instantly refuse. 

“Get out,” you order him, a demand falling on deaf ears as you try to lunge towards the door. “Lieutenant, get out!” 

“Look!” He barks, large hands grasping hold of your upper arms before your fingers graze the door handle, enforcing your body to remain in place. A shrill panic ensues, your mind twisting in various confusing emotions as you’re forcibly stagnant in front of your own dirty bathroom mirror. 

“Lieutenant—“ 

“Quiet,” he curts, keeping a firm grip on the outer parts of your arms. “You can fight me on this later, right now I’m getting a point across.” 

Your mouth opens to question, only to emit a gasp as a firm click of a switch bathes the both of you in a sudden, yellowed light. You squint, as if you were face to face with an open, blinding flame merely moments away from burning your skin further off, seemingly awaiting the agonizingly familiar sting. 

“Look.” His voice floods your ears, more solemn than you’ve ever heard it yet. 

Without much else, you look, and what you see is a disheveled woman staring right back at you. Once was a fully young, fat face with pride, both for yourself and your accomplishments. Minimally, quietly proud. 

In its place was a warped image, like a circus tent mirror, part of your face taunt and forever pulled, forever marked with gruesome memories that paraded themselves in your dreams.

Dull, sunken eyes. Dry, fat lips. Scarred, unevenly puffy cheeks, and that horrifyingly dreadful scar. 

You hated it; hated what it signified, what it still meant. Nose flared, you pull yourself forward, grasping the sink for additional leverage to lean yourself out of reach, once again making an effort for the door.  

A thick palm cups the front of your throat, pushing upwards instead of back, stilling you before you even make it that far. His pointer and thumb lined perfectly along your jaw, framing your face without an ounce of pressure, encasing you in a weak, delicate trap. 

The surprise in your expression was eminent, your silence understandably so. The Lieutenant was adamant on his unspoken point to this strange position, leaving you no choice but to swallow this uncomfortable pride. 

“You’re not looking.” His comment irritated you, his possible amusement well hidden after watching your furrowed brow. 

“What am I supposed to look at?” Nearly seething at him does nothing, his gaze never faltering from your reflection. 

“A living, breathing woman.” 

Further confused, you look at yourself again. Over and over after each blink in your eyes, each breath that enters your nose, the blood flushing your scarred cheek with color. 

“You believe you’re incapable of breath until your comrades are avenged?” His question leaves you wondering, slightly startled by the endless possibilities behind it. “You find yourself unfit for living until you take the life of another?” 

You try to speak, your chest bitterly swelling with pain. 

“Quiet.” 

A gentle order, one you unwittingly follow. 

“You don’t stop living after being the last one standing,” his words leave little room for backtalk, little thought of chiding against him with weak insults or distasteful comments. 

“You take their names, their faces with you, an’ you keep moving. You don’t use their deaths as excuses to drive yourself to an early grave, let alone lack the discipline to drag others down with you.” 

The truth was blunt, straight forward, and honest. Whether they were words you needed to hear, or some bullshit last minute paragraph on the back end cover of a book meant little right now. What mattered was how you felt after hearing it. 

Staring back at you was a woman who had let her torture consume her. Hours and hours of brutal humiliation at the expense of cruel men take over her own sanity, resorting her down to a shell of a memory, selfishly driven sloppy by vengeance. 

You worked so hard to get to where you were then, to now , a sniper. A good sniper, a badass one, who tried hiding her bravado behind a minimal drive upon working with the big dogs, but highly appreciative of yourself none the less. 

Where had it all gone? Nothing about this was ever gonna be easy to face, but it was necessary in order to confront the reality of it. It hurt, but it was the truth. You needed to work on it before it got you or someone else killed.

Why did you need a costume wearing bastard to help you see that? Because he must’ve lived this, you’ve come to understand. What took you months of struggle was probably years for him, trauma he couldn’t face all in one night. 

Clearly, he didn’t shoot himself down in the squalor of it, he made himself something out of it, to help himself keep up the fight. To face your pain was to acknowledge the cut before stopping the bleeding. 

Ghost took your silence as a registering period, given how your gaze proceeded to linger for a while along his masked face. Trying to search something of him under the hard exterior, under the black paint shrouding his gaze. 

He wouldn’t stand there and tell you of his own story, of his own faults and trauma. No, he’d spare you the unexplained words and offer you this shortcut, saving you the upcoming years of self disgust. 

You didn't deserve this, the woman you are didn't deserve the self loathe and hate. Don’t ask him why he found himself in this position, a small part of him didn’t even know why he bothered through all this trouble. 

“What’re you waiting for?” Your voice broke the stale air, leaving him blinking, emitting a questioned grunt. 

"What're you waiting for ?" You repeated, tone louder than a whisper, feeling the warmth of his hand along the majority of your neck. "You expecting me to cry? I’m not going to cry in front of you.”

He blinks, not exactly expecting you to in the first place, hidden brows furrowed. 

“There are other ways.” 

You raised a brow, caught off guard by that short, dry statement. “What does that mean?” 

Silence. His hand slipped off your neck, your skin radiating from the warmth of his raspy glove. 

“Whatever you think it does.” He replies. 

You cried enough all those months ago, a crude thought you didn’t voice, but still, you're confused. 

“What do you want, Lieutenant?"

“To stop lookin’ at me like that.” 

How?? His awkward comment sparked a bloom of amusement, slowly ruining the intimidating aspect of his broad body nearly trapping you against the sink. 

“It’s not like you have a damn face under there anyway.”

His stern glare returns towards yours in the mirror’s reflection; black painted eyes narrowed at your snarky attempt to either joke, or get under his skin. The latter was definitely working. 

“Likely uglier than yours.” 

Booming surprise left your eyes wide, imagining a smirk dressed along the mystery of his notched lips. Talk about your lack of humor, his was worse. But somehow, it rewarded you a short grin. 

“What did you… what did you mean, a bit ago?” You couldn’t help that aching little curiosity, wanting Ghost to elaborate on that simple remark. 

His response period was a little longer than expected, but he answered. 

“That’s classified, sweetheart.”

Bullshit . 

You breathe out through your nose, your fingers tapping against the edge of the porcelain sink. It failed to occur to you just how exactly close Ghost had been, how he had gotten away with all his actions just now. What was worse was how your body had been reacting to it nearly the entire time. 

“Talk about classified,” you mutter. “You came into my bathroom unannounced, what if I was naked?”

“Then it would’ve been a hell of a sight.”

His response was nearly immediate, adding an additional drop of gasoline to the empty oil drum. It wasn’t helping this situation, gone from strict serious concern into… emotions and sensations you couldn’t bring yourself to name just yet. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” proceeding slowly, your gaze quickly evading his for the moment. “Everything underneath is just as ugly as your face.” 

“Highly doubt it.” 

Again, your eyes meet. His never really left yours, especially after that comment. Not once did it drift lower, imagining what was hidden under your dreary greens and grays. 

Heartbeat drumming louder in your ears, you shake your head, feeling like this entire situation was a huge prank. Would he be as serious as he displayed himself to be? You didn’t know, why were you even wondering? 

What the hell were you expecting? Further testing the waters, you speak: 

“This whole… ordeal would’ve gone very different, if I was. You’re aware of that, right?” 

Ghost says nothing, the soft rouse of his baklava fills the air as he nods once. Nodding as well, you muster up a little more courage. 

“That… wouldn’t have been allowed.”

“Right. Question is, if it did, would you have allowed it to happen?” His words left a tingle ache down the majority of your spine. 

“It depends. You’ll have to tell me what's going on in that head of yours first.”

This was a dangerous game in the making as you laid your pieces out. A heavy risk weighing on your chest, a hefty chess piece to push along the board. 

Ghost was long aware of what he started the moment he opened his mouth, the second his hand was on your throat, but he left it on you to decide how to act upon that.

Your choice, your risk. 

"Do I have permission to provide an example?" He proposed, watching your cheeks glow in further wonder of that question. With your slow nod, you’re left watching him take a step forward, his hand reaching out to flip the light switch, blanketing you both in darkness. 

Warm, gloved hands grasp softly along your shoulders, a faint outline of your bodies scarcely made out in the mirror’s reflection. Big palms run down the length of your arms, slipping from your forearms to mold around your waist, firmly cupping your hips. Your warmth radiates through your clothes, his hands itching to seek further. 

Both hands slipped to your front after peeking under your shirt, testing the waters with care as he trails along your stomach. Unbeknownst fully, Ghost watched your face in the mirror, the darkness providing an intriguing outline of your expressions, a somewhat guess in response to his touch. 

Thumbs brushed along the underside of your bra, his fingers lightly tracing the make out of your ribs. Who’s to know how long your body took to healing a plethora of bruises, he’d wonder how long you had to suffer from prudy blues and purples, long affecting you after they diminished to yellow. 

" Christ... " You could almost hear him mutter near the shell of your ear, muffled underneath that mask of his. 

Cupping both your breasts, he squeezed them through the padding, massaging through the material tantalizingly slow, savoring the infuriating torture of being patient with your body. 

"Be honest, you ever thought of someone touchin’ you like this?" He muttered the question again in your ear, the fabric of his mask making your skin tingle.

Strands of hair shifted, signifying your short nod in the silence. 

"Words. Use 'em."

"Yes." You exhaled. "I have."

"Have you thought of me?" He asked, lowering his hands away from your chest, making contact with your fabric belt. Cocky question to ask, considering neither of you have spoken so much until today. 

What pleased him was your short word of agreement, confirming what he had selfishly assumed once upon a time, during a moment of bereavement.  

“Can I continue?” Ghost pauses after slow work of your belt, the easy task of unbuttoning your jeans awaiting your very demand. 

"Please," you practically begged him in a tone you nearly didn’t recognize. Breathless and eager for a taste of sin in this very moment, a welcoming distraction from the unlikeliest of people. Saying nothing, you’re left listening to a short series of Velcro screams and buckles unlatching, a thud of something heavy carelessly falling on the ground by your boots.  His right hand makes work at tugging off his left glove, calloused skin warm against your stomach. 

“Jus’ tell me to stop, and I will. No questions asked.” 

A warm digit brushed past layers of cloth, meeting your wetness with a shudder from your end. In seconds, he finds your ever so eager bundle of nerves, encircling the swollen flesh with expert-like precision. You couldn't remember the last time you've been touched like this; with hands that weren't your own, much larger than yours.

"Have those dirty little thoughts of yours gone farther than just me touching you?" His other arm slipped around your waist, pulling you to press your back against his chest, completely lacking his utility vest from before. 

“Thought of me takin' you in bed? Up against a wall? Talk to me."

His low rasp mixed with his thick finger occasionally dipping into your entrance left you swallowing thickly, feeling yourself tense from his teasing, dripping against his palm.

“Mhm,” your response was immediate after his attention returned to your puffy nub, rubbing small, quick circles to coincide with your hitching breaths. 

“How ‘bout here?" He questioned, pressing against your clit hard enough to draw out a small, suppressed whine.

He felt you clench, emitting another grunt of approval. Your cunt invited his fingers so easily, driving his imagination wild at how it'll feel to bury his cock deep inside.

“What if I fucked you up against the glass right now? Force you to watch yourself fall apart in my arms.” His accent grew heavy, calloused fingers matching his eagerness in ways that left your hands clutching the sink until your knuckles lightened. Your head lifts, a short gasps leaving your parted lips as the pit of fire in your belly grew brighter.

“No no.” Fingers gathered a fistful of hair from the back of your head, raising your head back forward. 

“Face forward. You’re not looking away until I allow it.”

“I can’t.. I can’t see anything.” 

“Try to.”

His other hand trailed up through your shirt, pushing away your bra to cup your soft mound. Two fingers gingerly pinched your nipple, just hard enough to leave a faint sting of pain.

You were so close already, embarrassingly enough from your Lieutenant’s touch, and he knew this. Your breath hitching and growing heavier, your clenching growing more consistent, the ever so desperate grasp of your nails scratching helplessly against the material of his jacket sleeve. 

It was quickly too much, and just as he gave, all actions abruptly came to a halt, much to your startled dismay. 

"This what you want?" The British brute.

"Yes.” It took a majority of your might to hold back from snapping. 

"Yes, what?"

Bastard . 

"Yes please! " You weren’t afraid to beg, ignoring the heat on your cheeks, believing there must’ve been a smirk of some kind on his hidden face. 

“Good girl." He shifts, hugging you closer to his bulky body. 

"You know my name?” He then asks. 

“No.”

“It’s Simon. Use it how you like, scream it if you have to.” He quickly resumed his actions, his fingers drenched in your arousal as he fucked deeper into your pussy, his calloused palm roughly smacking directly against your clit.

“Oh—… fuck, fuck! S-Simon! ” His name fell from your tongue in quick pants, both hands clutching his forearm for dear life when the band snapped, shooting hot pleasure throughout your entire body. 

Simon . A simple name dancing off your tongue so erotically, a filth that stuck to his brain for a later memory to savor. 

You melted in his arms, a faint tingle of embarrassment barely present in the back of your mind in the midst of your moans. Never in your life did you expect this to happen, again with the unlikeliest person on the entire base. 

Simon slowed down, decreasing the pace while you rode out the high, but not completely stopping. Another wave of painful goosebumps spread across your body, shrill heat pooling in your abdomen leaving you squirming in his hold. Simon's palm could directly feel your heartbeat threatening to escape between your ribs, drumming as quick as a hummingbird’s wings. 

Fabric shuffles somewhere behind you, raising question in his actions until a shallow clink falls directly in the sink. No word of warning comes to you as his hands retract, boots scuffing along vinyl flooring as your back meets the cold bathroom wall. 

His shadowy frame loomed over you, his presence warm and musky. The creak of his boots echoed in between your pants as he lowers down, weary hands finding your boot laces in the dark. 

His hands feel your leg muscles quiver after prying off each boot, tugging the material of your pants and undergarments. Bare hands trailed along your soft outer thighs, his focused eyes lingering on every detail of your warm skin. Your natural smell invades his senses, a syrupy sweet touch leaving his mouth watering.

“Don’t know what you’re complainin’ about, sweetheart.” Simon’s raspy tone invades the air, lowered by the distance. “Even bathed in blood, you look fuckin’ gorgeous.”

Both of you are thinking instantly back to that day, your body towering over the dead man who played a part in your unspeakable horror. Bright blood staining the smooth marble statuesque that was your skin, the victor in a bloody battle. 

“You’re just being nice.” You exhale, goosebumps grow along your skin after his comment further accompanied his hands settling behind your thighs. 

“I’m being honest.“ 

He shuffles closer, his breath flush against the skin of your inner thigh, nose nearly bumping against your mound. Cupping along your leg, he pulls you up to settle your knee along his broad shoulder, gifting him what he desired. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.” 

Using both hands, Simon pulls your hips closer, bringing your core right up against his face. A finger dips in between your folds, his thumb rolling along your clit before slipping his warm tongue against your center, immediately grunting from your flavor. 

Palms firmly pressed back against the wall, you gasp from newfound sensitivity, nearly slouching if not for his strength playing a part in keeping you upright. 

His blunt nails dig crescent marks into your skin, the stubble of his jaw prickling your inner thighs. You’re left only picturing those deep, intimidating eyes fueled to the brim with lust, lashes heavy with crinkled concentration on tasting your sweet cunt, crying into his mouth like rare flower nectar. 

It grew to be too much too fast, your head craning back against the wall with eyes squeezed shut. Despite the raging oversensitivity, another approaching orgasm left him all the more eager to continue. 

A hand crudely grabs a fistful of your shirt, yanking it downwards to get your attention. 

“Eyes.” He growls from in between your legs. “Or this stops.”

You’re left obeying, you had to. It would've driven you absolutely mad if he stopped again.

Closing his lips over your clit, he sucks hard, nearly feeling your body curl as your back arched off the wall. Continuous moans and whines leave your lips, all while you struggled to maintain eye contact with his shadowy gaze, feathered lashes fluttering in the darkness. 

You’d only imagine the sight, if you had the stomach to not be embarrassed of it. Disgustingly sloppy, eyes shrouded in deep dehydration as his tongue delved deep to sate his thirst. You’re only left as a blind victim, whimpering helplessly on his tongue. 

You came again quicker than before, your hand incidentally grabbing ahold of your Lieutenant’s head. You didn't pull, nearly fighting in between pushing his head back or clutching him closer, but Simon didn’t care. Your hips against his mouth, your flavor completely flooding his senses, nearly dripping down his taint chin. 

He wouldn’t voice it, but he’s wanted to do that for quite a while. Quite a long while. 

Your hand leaves his head, your breathing slowing after he retracts his mouth from your core. Your foot slowly settled on the cold floor after he lets you go, removing himself in a matter of moments. 

The bathroom door opens, revealing a stale white glow from the hallway illuminating your bedroom from the semi-opened door. Simon leaves, your greedy gaze capturing the back of his head, sharp wisps of dark hair illuminated momentarily before the door was closed. Probably locked too.

Turning back around, his face once more shrouded in darkness, leaving an ache in your anxious mind to see him better. To put a face to this simple name he’s given you. 

He approaches once more, his shadow shrouding your body with heat as his hands grab along your thighs, hoisting you up in his arms. Instinctively, you held onto his shoulders, keeping your legs secure as he left the bathroom, approaching your bed in short strides.

Your body meets cold, clean sheets, sweaty skin seeping against the fabric. Once more, it’s quiet, the sound of heartbeats frantically echoing in the silence. 

“You alright to continue?” Simon says, awaiting your further request to allow yourself, or deny him. 

“Stay,” came your immediate reply, your plea to continue. You’ve gotten this far with the Lieutenant, way past the point of no return, it feels like. Even after this, their was no way you’d look at him the same again, but this wasn’t Ghost you were referring to. 

It was just Simon, asking your permission to distract you from the casualties of war. 

Without much warning, your shirt was ripped clean through from the start of your front collar. Your bra came next; quicker, a bit easier as they now joined the short pile on the floor. 

In a silly fashion, you reminded him of a Christmas present. Unable to help himself from tearing you open. 

"What about you?" You questioned, absolutely breathless as his hands trail over your breasts, rolling your nipples with his thumbs. 

"Hm?"

"You're wearing too much."

Without either thought, he unzipped his black jacket, tossing it to the far corner of the dark room. Last was his gray shirt, slipping it over his head to lay abandoned on the floor. 

Your hand raised up, touching hard, taunt muscle lined with awkward, crooked ridges of various scars. Strange divots of a possible bullet hole along his lower side, his skin warm under your fingertips. 

"Like what you see?" Simon took your silence with amusement, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. You couldn’t see him , that’s the fucking point. 

"Lay back." You say to him, his fingers clenching at his sides. Far too late to turn back and assume his superior role, taking orders from someone under his rank. 

The bed dips as his forearms make contact with the mattress, hands grazing your hip as you shift over, allowing him some room. His large frame almost took up the entire bed as he sat back against the wall, his boots barely missing the edge of the twin bed by a foot. If he spread out his arms any further than where they rested, they’d be dancing off the edge. 

Jittery nerves aside, you maneuver yourself as best you could to sit yourself on his lap, nearly hovering until you grew more comfortable. Simon stifled himself, feeling the pressure of your soft skin and wet cunt against his jeans, the coarseness a welcomed friction.  He figured he'd have a bit more control after everything he did, once figuring himself a patient man, but your presence over him nearly threw all caution out the window. Finding purchase along your hips, his nails dig into soft flesh, urgent with haste and quiet desperation he could only continue to maintain. This cold, stoic lieutenant who once mildly annoyed you before now wanted you, craved you. 

It was costing him his sanity by the minute, his aching cock throbbing to fuck your sticky, sweet pussy, but he refused to rush too far without your permission. 

He needed to hold back, to take care. He was exactly what you believed; a brute. A stubborn minded fool. Not to be cocky, but he knew his limits. 

"Simon."

" Hm ?" A rasp etched his reply, rich deep and velvety from the back of his throat, further blooming your arousal. 

Cool, soft fingers brushed along the bottom of his jaw, his breath nearly stilling in his throat. They paused, hesitant to further touch a cold flame, baited for a silent permission. He probably owed you that much, relying further on touch based on lost vision between you both. 

Swallowing thickly, his head cranes a little forward, slowly inviting your fingers to explore where you pleased. A five-day old stubble prickled along your fingertips, the sharpness of his cheekbones, shagged, sweat dampened hair on his head. 

A rugged map of weariness from age, delicate features that gave way towards a strange, somewhat familiar divot along his lower left jaw. A deep scar indented his skin, starting at his upper right cheekbone, trailing down across his upper lip. Fading down into a pale silvery scar throughout the years, greatly contrasting his skin.

Every single word he said before proceeded to make absolute sense, giving you an odd sense of vulnerability. Maybe you two shared a whole lot more in common than you thought.

How were your hands so soft? Simon could quietly wonder as his gaze stuck to your outline, your hands feeling as supple as the majority of your body he’s tasted and touched. 

Both hands planted themselves along his shoulders, your hips slowly rolling once to his delight. Your breath hitched, shivering at the rough texture of his je ans stroking your clit, a quiet moan leaving your lips.

Impatiently, hands tightening along your skin, he bucks underneath you, emitting a grunt from the pleasant simulation. An additional whimper follows from you, a hand grasping along his broad wrist with a quiet plea for more of that wonderful friction. 

Simon nearly chuckles at your neediness, more than happy to give what he was ready to deliver. Your sensitive body reacted so easily to the slightest touch, further stimulating the constricting ache in his cock. 

Releasing a hand, he lowers his thumb to your press against your bud, purposely still to inflict another amusing response from you. It works, your annoyed whimper filling his ears.  Every fiber, every cell in your body was aching and yearning for him, despite what he put your body through already. You’re wet, aching and yearning for him, heart pounding uncomfortably in anticipation.  The disappointment of his thumb leaving was instantly replaced with an eagerness as a belt jingled under you, his hand brushing against your skin as he pops the buttons, zipping open his confines. 

A heavy hiss left him once he frees himself, the warm air chill against the head of his leaking cock, falling back against his lower abdomen. 

You try your best to keep relaxed, nerves trembling at the realization of how exactly you'd get him to fit. He was pretty big, bigger than average by an entire inch or so. Cut, thick, heavy . You knew it was going to hurt, barely getting a good grip on him even if you tried. 

"Fuckin' hell," He drew out a deep groan, your fingers instantly joining alongside his grasp, all too eager to touch him, nearly startled by his thickness. 

Again, he was a brute , he would not absolutely blame you for halting anything further. 

"Wait." His hand squeezed your hip in warning, heavy concern filling his tone as any final ounce of reasoning he had left came forward. 

You say nothing, delicate fingers eagerly grasping his length with little regard of your fingers closing around him entirely. Simon wondered how anxious you were, how desperately eager and wet you must’ve been to let him fill you entirely, fucking every single thought out of your mind with no regard for tomorrow. It didn’t stop him from thinking proper, not wanting to hurt you more than it could. 

"Do you feel ready, sweetheart? Need you to mean it, ‘cause once I start—“

"Please… I don't wanna wait anymore." Your voice dibbled like honey, banishing any further doubt here after for now. 

That was all he needed to hear.

Two fingers rentable dip into your cunt, stretching you more than a single digit could, feeling you squeezing him. You whined more, hearing him dismiss with a short huff, insisting you had to get used to him first.  Simon knew you were impatient, but hearing your nervous little whines, aching for his cock to break through your walls, to ruin you completely, had him all the more compliant with your request. 

The blunt head of his sticky cock nudge past your soaked hole, leaving you tense and still. You underestimated your assuming capability to accept him so easily, the tip feeling nearly impossible to handle. 

Fuck, does he feel it. Tight and sweet , your delicate cunt weeping to let him in. 

“Easy...” Simon's voice lowered to a raspy whisper, keeping a firm hold on your soft hip, tapping himself against your clit. Hearing that pleased little whimper, he nudged himself back against your opening, fighting back a hiss as your walls slowly welcome him in. 

A series of brief, gentle squeals leave your lips from the pressure, your walls flush with heat as you stretch around his length. Inch by slow, agonizing inch, he stretched you open just for him, his tightened hold preventing you from sinking down further than you could handle. 

Despite the resistance, you grew a little too greedy for more, despite the risks of a quick ache. He was being too gentle, uncharacteristically sincere in a way you never expected, leaving you feeling all the more lustful and perverted. You just desperately wanted to do both yourselves a favor. 

A mild sting still lingered while he stretched you out past the first 5 or so inches, a burning warmth growing in your lower abdomen, a filling ache that would stick as a reminder the next day. Your hips couldn't move any further even when you tried, feeling fuller than you've ever felt before. 

Simon was the first to close his eyes, groaning behind closed lips from the more you took of him. You were quite a bold little thing, wanting to take so much of him in such a short amount of time. You carelessly threw logic out the window, and he couldn't really blame you. Neither of you were supposed to be doing this, he knew better. A whole lot fucking better. 

However, he just couldn’t help himself. 

Reinforcing his grip on your waist, he guides you off his cock inch by agonizing inch, nice and slow. He’s left focusing on his head barely remaining inside, his cock glistening. With no warning, he pulls you back down onto his cock with a sickly squelch, a yelp erupting from your mouth, sticky skin flushed against scratchy , damp jeans.

"Don't stop,” You beg, a tremble poorly hidden in your tone. “Please— fuck . You're so— big."

Simon didn't act surprised to hear you say that. actually. He refused to question anything right now and took your word for it. But man, was it ever a bigger ego boost than ever before.  He repeats his actions, slowly raising your body like a doll over and over, your walls accepting his cock with much more ease, managing to get about half an inch further than before.

“Atta girl,” Simon grunted, fighting himself against rocking himself up against your core. 

“Come on, take what you need. Shit , that’s it.” His gruff tone made you squeeze him, giving him clear evidence that you enjoyed his words.

Taking more of a lead, you rock yourself on your own without any further support, bracing your hands along the surface of his abdomen, raising your hips to bounce on his lap. Rugged hands trailed up along your skin, reaching up further to grab handfuls of your breasts, pinching your nipples with stinging intent.

The constant clink of his belt buckle rattling with each bounce, the immediate signs of your arousal coating the zipper of his pants, dripping down to his balls. 

“That’s it. Fuck, that’s a good girl.” His hands return back to your hips, rocking himself with impatient ease, pounding his cock faster than the pace prior. You keen at his rasps, trembling in delight of his thick cock hitting that deep spot inside you so perfectly, striking your cervix directly with little shame. 

Your nails helplessly claw along his biceps, scratching hard against his shoulders, drawing angry marks along his upper chest. 

Simon groans from the sting, the potential of blood drawn by your hand alone leaving him seething. He didn’t know why the burst of pain made him nearly pick up speed, eager to beat his throbbing cock as deeply inside you as possible, making note of each squeal and cry.  He was so long, thick and perfect; continuously hit your g-spot without even purposefully trying. 

Simon couldn't say that he wasn't enamored with the warmth of you in his arms, riding him like this, breasts bouncing constantly with a continuous stream of cries leaving your pretty lips. You’re struggling to keep upright, your face settling against his shoulder as you clung helplessly to him, sweat smearing against skin. 

It was Simon's turn to get greedy, securing both arms around your lower waist to fuck you faster, sounds of skin slapping skin temporarily pervading the air, accompanying your moans. 

"That's it, takin' me like a good girl, aren't ya?" He panted onto your forehead, grabbing the back of your head via a taunt fistful of hair. You’re left whining at the sting before meeting his eyes. The sweat on his brow slowly rippled down the side of his temple, mingling with the black grease paint on his skin, staining the crisp sheets. 

" Fuck … can’t answer? Getting cock drunk already, sweetheart?”

Simon taunts, leaving you squealing and delirious from his haphazard strokes. Your sounds were sincere enough to illicit agreement, but they won’t do on a count for verbal replies.

“If you want me to— fuck , keep fucking the shit outta you, you better speak when spoken to.”

You never would've assumed that Simon was the kind to talk so filthy, but after this night, you'd gladly believe anything to be possible. He never would've been this mouthy with you under any other kind of circumstance. He's your Lieutenant;  your higher up, one of the roles being to set a good example, but here he was, fucking you for all its worth. No matter the risks.

That was a little treasure that you'd cherish for as long as you could.

"More, Simon." You whined, nearly out of breath with trembling overstimulation rendering you close. 

"Yeah? You want more?" He pants, taking this second to slow for a short breath. 

" Mhm ... I want more, deeper. More ." You whined even louder, fighting back a sniffle as tears blurred your limited vision. A familiar band stretching tighter in the heat of your abdomen, a burning flame super close, begging to burst out. 

His breath nearly fanned your face, his nose faintly bumping against your cheek. Still unable to make out his face, you’re limited to the outline of his head, the occasional flutter of his lashes if his eyes were to close. The ever so slight close proximity of his mouth near yours, the smell of your own juices still lingering on his skin. 

In your hazed state, a surge of boldness coursed through your veins, your forehead momentarily settling against his, noses practically touching. What was preventing you from quickly chasing your release was a searing burn in your inner thighs, causing a stagger in your pace. 

Simon finds himself nearly stuttering to a full stop, his own breath hitching at the close proximity. Strands of your hair tickled along his face, his skin blooming further with aroused heat. 

His brows curl down in quiet conflict, the surreal closeness leaving his heart fluttering once or twice. He should know better than to feel like this, given your positions now. But this… this was close . Too close. Too intimate. For a moment, it was a bit hard to process all of this as reality; growing so accustomed to strict, stoic professionalism, knowing very well that things like this weren't ever allowed.

Too surreal, too… overboard, but he didn’t stop you. He didn’t stop himself, and he didn’t want to. 

His lips felt just as scarred as his fingers, but warm and inviting, tasting like crude tobacco and your own salty self. It was a quick kiss, gentle and soft, following soon by another, then another, completing the book of broken rules.  Arms melding perfectly over his shoulders, chests snug against one another, Simon’s hips rocked with newfound fervor, slamming you feverishly down on his cock with absolute lack of warning. 

" Come on, Come on … Come on, pretty girl. Come for me." He muttered those words like a mantra against your lips, just as focused on your release before he had his.

Instead of another verbal reply, all you could do is whimper and cry, repeating his name while balling your fist in his hair, nails irritating his scalp. 

He’s left witnessing how much you squirmed and trembled, certain he’d leave your plush body dappled with bruises the size of his fingertips. 

"Just like that?" He knew he didn't have to wait for an answer, but for your sake, he did.

You began squealing, " Yes!" over and over again as you approached your edge, feeling Simon brace himself before slamming his cock into you harder, his hand pushing your ass down on his cock, holding you so tight you couldn’t even squirm. 

You came quietly at first, aching cunt tightening around him so much you could feel him pulsate, causing all his self-control to completely crack and wither away. A loud, choked sob left your parted lips, followed by a stream of continuous cries as you came.

It was hard to focus on fucking you consistently with you moaning his name like that, feeling your walls squeeze him so tight in a deathly grip, bordering unbearable. 

“ Fuck’s sake. ” He gruffs along your neck, abruptly scooping you up in his arms to shift your positions. 

He surprised you with much slower and softer rocks before you fully registered and settled under him, grasping your outer thigh against his broad waist, dragging himself out until only the head remained, rolling his hips for a single, full stroke, barely kissing the tip of your cervix to slow himself from coming too soon. 

You're left mewing at the welcomed sting of him splitting you open, flush body beautifully trapped under his caged arms, under scorned muscle and bone. Broken, healing beauty, his own personal scene to savor in such steaming gloom. 

That patience instantly dies as he bucks harshly against you, bullying your sore, sensitive cunt. Deep grinds, uneven, shallow thrusts fucking you past your limit, pulling the most desperate, loud moans from you just because he could. Your blank out mind loved the alternation between the two, leaving you lying helplessly under him while he did what he pleased.

In a silent haste, his hand danced with the idea of settling over your neck. Not to hold down or squeeze, to caress. To cradle. 

Selfish, intimate thoughts he had to banish from his head as quickly as it had arrived. 

It's one thing to move in unison to pleasure yourselves like before, it’s another when it comes to him putting aside his own pleasure just so you could come first, but the idea of him truly fucking you: holding you in place and having full control over your body was nearly too much to bare. It left you caring if the two of you had to inevitably pretend that none of this ever happened in the morning, the fact that this the best sex you’ve had in your life was all that mattered to you, for now. 

You could only believe Simon thought the same, but he’d never find himself sharing how much this close contact left his head spinning. Direct skin to skin, the sickly sweet stench flooding his senses entirely was mind ruining him completely. 

He drew a complete blank, outside his physical desires; to have you beside him, to have you under him, to keep you within reach.

He only wanted you .

While never really questioning his own stamina, the doubts he had earlier over whether he had the proper amount of patience and self control drifted away, burying his face into the junction of your neck, his nose trailing the sweaty skin leading up to your face. Notched lips slightly trailed along your scar before meeting yours, taking your bottom lip hard in between his teeth.

“Mm! Oh fuck!” You slur out, hitching into short, shrill cries bordering on screams, your cunt squeezing him so tightly once more as he finally approached his own peak. “ Fuck! S-Simon, please !” 

“ Mph, shit!” His jaw locks, nose flaring against your temple, strands of your hair feathering along his lashes. “I’m right there… I’m right—“

Simon halted his sentence with a teeth gritting hiss, burying his face into your neck yet again. Large hands squeeze your thighs to his sides, his last physical leverage as his balls tense, lower muscles tightening in earnest. 

Searing hot skin against skin, the sounds of your cunt crying for him, the agonizing pain of your nails drawing blood down his back grew too much too quick as you cling to him for dear life. 

He retracts from the sanction of your trembling thighs, yanking himself free from your poor, overstretched pussy as hot, thick seed paints your skin, dribbling down in between glistening, abused lips. 

" Fuck… You're perfect." Simon exhales as if a forbidden whisper, sinfully low along the crown of your ear, your heart fluttering while you catch your breath. He keeps himself braced up as he catches his breath, saving you the crushing weight of his heavy body.

Feeling caged in a tingling comfort of your shared afterglow, you felt good. Warm even, and safe. 

A plethora of thoughts and emotions rushed to mind, barging against the calm serenity of your afterglow. Wild thoughts rushing from appalled that you succumbed to this in the first place, and a mild, morbid curiosity of his blood under your fingernails. 

Taking a deep, exhausted sigh, Your muscles ache as you shift in an awkward effort to stand, a hand on your shoulder stopping you from creeping further off the bed. 

“Don’t move,” a gentle demand enforces, leaving you still as his silent shadow ceases hovering over you, his weight vanishing from the bed as he leaves. The soft roll of water out from the old sick’s faucet has you wondering, up until the water stops. 

Boots drum against the door as he returns, a warm, wet cloth brushing across your inner thigh, carefully scrubbing across your lower abdomen. Surprised was a dreary understatement, further leaving you stunted at the identity of the masked Lieutenant that supposedly still had you on discharge. 

If you asked why he bothered tending to you, he’d answer with ‘common decency,’ and nothing more. He’d clean the blood off his back later, it wasn’t a priority at the moment. 

"One of your little fantasies ever play out like this?" Simon’s question split the serene atmosphere, recalling the memory of his awkward banter.

“Do I need to answer that?”

“If you’d like.” 

He was really rolling in on the big questions lately. A twist of cynical humor. 

"Sure. Something like this." You respond, keeping yourself as relaxed as possible as your embarrassment settles throughout your body. Most likely he'd never act like this ever happened, so you might as well savor the unsavory banter as much as possible.  

“Am I still discharged?” You proceed, deciding to add your piece to this crude, twisted puzzle of a conversation. 

He says nothing, the warm rag running close to cold before being removed from your skin. In the dark, you imagine Ghost’s narrowed eyes glaring you down, the shame from before weighing on you all over again. 

Even without the mask, just his eyes alone appeared so intimidating. A familiar tingle of excitement rose from the back of your chest, a certain playfulness you loved to use when faced with a challenge.

Those consequences hadn’t changed. He'll give you that much, on the count that you don't fuck up like that again. He knows for a fact you wouldn’t, not after the exchange of everything you’ve offered one another. 

He could worry about that later, but for now, you’ve become… a pleasant memory to look back on. Nothing more. 

Again, how terribly wrong he’d been. 

“How copy?” His last name echoed in your right ear, a soft breeze following suit, cooling the sweat on your skin. 

“Solid on the roof. No sign of the target just yet.” You respond, gently adjusting your scope towards your designated range. The new moon blessed you with ample cover on a rooftop, local towards the adjacent building of interest. 

“Copy. Hold your position, ETA three minutes until Alpha team settles in and surrounds the building.”

“Copy that.” You remain stagnant through your scope, watching the guards keep idle on their usual position along the windows on the second floor. Your view of interest was an office area, a rich oak table decorated with seven chairs, currently occupied by various, rugged faces. 

If you were a high value, sought after target months deep in hiding, cocky enough to hold onto the belief that his vast wealth left him nearly untouchable, you would think you’d keep away from the broadest of windows. 

Your target had plenty more gray hairs, the last time you saw him. Maybe the cheap light hanging overhead did little to fully point out the severity of his stress as he sliced your face apart. There he was now, right within your perfect range, patiently awaiting orders. 

“ Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” Ghost chimed in, a heavy murmur to fill the silence. “Took ya a while to answer me.” 

For now, it was you and him alone out in the middle of the field, doing what you did best to get the job done. 

“Why? You curious?”

“I’m guessin’ being on a rooftop by yourself is pretty entertaining.”

You huff, smirking underneath your black mask: an old keepsake gifted from your Lieutenant. 

Ever since then, things naturally changed between the two of you. You kept a closer eye on each other's backs, seemingly enacting on every whim that the both of you thought without having to say a word. 

“Counting sheep here, Lt. I get bored up here sometimes. Care to join me next time for cards?”

“Tempting offer. Don't say something you’ll regret.”

Who says I’ll regret it? You wanted to roll your eyes so badly if you weren’t occupied on the task at hand.

“You good at Cribbage?” 

“You’re done for, kid.” 

Your smirk dies as your target rushes out of his room, a pitiful entourage in tow. His phone remained camped to his ear, spitting out some unclarified, panicked nonsense. 

Regardless of the reason, he was out in the open, giving you a perfect view of him.

“Eyes on the prize, Ghost. No signs of Alpha team yet.”

“They’re thirty seconds away. How clear is your shot?”

You hesitate, swallowing slowly with anticipation tickling your fingertips. “Fucking perfect.”

“Right you are, orders are he’s wanted dead or alive. Take your pick, Mirage.” 

You smile before pulling the trigger, all while wandering in the back of your mind if the last thing your target saw was a faint glimmer out from the corner of his eye. A minimal glimmer from the barrel of a proud sniper. 

Breath in, exhale. Breath in, hold . 

Fire .