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Chapter Text

Picasso doggedly placed one foot in front of the other, pack heavy on her back and equipment threatening to break the hold on her hands. Ever the stubborn one, she couldn’t bear the thought of making a second trip back to the heli pad, so here she was. Tired, over-burdened, and one wrong turn from being hopelessly lost.

Her focus was so narrow that she didn’t hear the large man until she felt a tug at her hand and, turning in surprise, was met with the impassive face of a towering skull. She stared. He stared back. She did not move. He tugged at the bag of equipment in her hand.

‘Uh—’

The motion broke her staring, and she let go. The big man took the extra weight with ease, shrouded gaze pinning her down. Picasso felt her cheeks warm a tad.

‘Um, thanks. Sorry, you took me by surprise.’

‘You’re going the wrong way,’ grunted the man, shouldering the bag and tilting his body back the way she had come. Picasso’s warm cheeks grew hot and she let out a sheepish laugh.

‘Sounds about right. Jet lag is a bitch and usually I'm good with accents, but I think I caught about every third word that Scot said when he told me where my room was.’

He huffed. It might have been a laugh. ‘You’ve gotta remind MacTavish t’speak English sometimes.’

‘You know him?’

‘Both 141. And you’re Picasso. Came with Axis.’

‘Yes.’ She had to fight to keep her breathlessness at bay as the large man’s stride ate up the ground. ‘Yeah, that’s us. I assume you’re Ghost?’

She got an affirmative grunt in reply. He turned once, twice, a third time, until he mercifully slowed down.

‘These’re the officer’s quarters. Mostly just lieutenants.’

The corridor was quiet, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the barracks. He pushed a door on the left, and Picasso peaked into her new room. It was more spacious than any one she’d had previously, utilitarian and with its own bathroom. A bed, a desk, a closet and a nightstand. Nothing more a girl could want.

‘Thanks, I really appreciate it. Never would have found it.’

He hummed, placing her bag down and standing back with his arms folded. Not the talking type, Picasso mused. She clicked on the desklight, frowning when it barely spluttered to life. ‘Hm.’ Flicking it back off, she turned once again to the man. ‘So I take it you’re down the hall?’

‘Next to ya.’ His masked face turned to the wall beside her bed with a nod. ‘Walls’re thin. You better not snore.’

‘Glad to report that is a negative.’

Seemingly satisfied, Ghost gave another nod and moved to take his leave. ‘Get settled, Captain will come find you. Give us a shout if you get lost again,’ he said gruffly, already halfway out the door.

‘Thanks Ghost,’ Picasso called out at his retreating figure.

She was a dead woman walking by the time the sun went down. Settled in and caught up with Captain Price, she had a warm meal in her belly and a soft buzzing in her head—the bed practically sung to her. It promised soft slumber and sweet dreams, washing away the aches and pains from her jet-lagged body. Her head touched the pillow. Her eyes closed.

There was a knock on her door.

‘Who the fuck,’ she whispered under her breath as she swung her tired body up and lurched, ungracefully, to open the door.

It was Ghost. Holding a lightbulb.

‘Oh, uh, hi Ghost—’

‘Your lamp.’ He stepped forward, squeezing his bulk past a somewhat surprised Picasso, flicking on the big light as he went. Ever the efficient soldier, he zeroed in on the target and immediately set to work.

‘My lamp?’

‘Light’s fucked.’

Oh yes. That’s right, the flickery light.

‘I can do that—’

‘Only take me a minute.’

Maybe it was being a soldier. Maybe it was being a woman. Maybe it was being the first woman to be an SASR soldier—but either way, there was a discomfort in watching a man do something for her that she knew she could do herself.

‘Done.’ His deep voice came before she could protest again. He flicked the switch, and the warm, strong light of the lamp glowed in the harsh overhead brightness. A small nod of satisfaction. ‘Had a spare. Sorry if I woke you.’

‘Oh no, no I wasn’t asleep. Yet, anyway.’ She paused, blinking her tired eyes at the lamp. ‘But thank you for this, I appreciate it.’

The man gave another nod and moved towards her door, arm reaching out and turning the big light off. The small room was immediately bathed in the comforting warm glow of the lamp, turning even the most utilitarian edges soft and homely. She gave him a genuine smile.

‘G’night, Picasso. See you in the mornin’.’

‘Good night, Ghost.’

In the morning, as she went to open the door with a yawn, she felt something brush against her foot. Frowning, she looked down. There lay what appeared to be a small card with a map of the base. She picked it up, twirling it between her fingers with a rueful smile. 

The officer's dorm was circled in red. 

Chapter Text

‘What had you gigglin’ last night?’

‘Hm?’

Ghost and Picasso were holed up in a treetop snipers nest, rifles and binoculars at the ready as Soap, Gaz and Axis led soldiers through the forest. Their mission? Capture the flag. The lieutenants? Annihilate anyone who tried.

‘Heard you laughin. Walls’re thin.’

Picasso snorted. ‘Oh yeah, I forget that. You don’t make a damn sound.’

‘I have a reputation to keep.’

Ghost slowly surveyed the forest below with his binoculars, searching for any movement. Large as he was, he was a little stuffed with the cramped limitations of the nest, limbs folded in on themselves in a way that couldn’t be comfortable. Picasso smiled.

‘I was reading a book.’

Ghost glanced at her. ‘A book? Thought it was bloody TikTok or whatever the fuck kids are watching these days.’

‘Okay Gramps, you’re only a few years older than I am. Just because you didn’t know what girlie pop meant doesn’t mean we are a whole millennia apart in age.’

He didn’t deign to respond. Picasso rolled her eyes at him.

‘I was reading Northanger Abbey.’

‘S’that a Jane Austen book?’

Picasso quirked an eyebrow. ‘You know it?’

‘Haven’t read it, but I know Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice and all that.’

‘You’ve read Pride and Prejudice?’

‘It’s the blueprint for romance novels. Gotta respect that.’

The woman looked at him with both eyebrows raised, her binoculars forgotten. The Ghost, sitting with an Austen novel, sipping tea and shaking his head at the characters’ antics, was not a vision she had ever thought would cross her mind’s eye. She felt a laugh bubble up, but his suddenly stiff body snapped her back to attention.

‘Three o’clock, movement. Looks like your sergeant.’

She brought her binoculars up and spotted the man in question almost immediately. ‘Axis. What’re you doing, mate.’

‘He’s the distraction. Others will be inbound.’

‘Yeah. He likes to be the sacrificial lamb. Lock and load Ghost, let’s make these kids cry for their mummies.’

Later, once the sergeants had stopped whining at their loss and left to lick their wounds, Picasso padded to the officer’s mess humming a soft tune as she carried her book. It was well past lights out, but things in the 141 were a little laxer than your typical military group. She knew the captain did not care if his officers wanted to have a midnight tea in peace.

Her humming had no true rhyme or reason to it, but it softened the silence as she moved about the little kitchenette. Turning the kettle on with a flick of a finger and placing her mug—well, the mug she had claimed—on the linoleum topped bench, she skimmed her finger over the selection of teas.

‘Caffeine, caffeine, caffeine—ah,’ whispered the woman, triumphant as she found a herbal. Liquorice. No wonder it was buried at the back, forgotten.

‘You drink that shite?’

Picasso damn near expired on the spot. Her hand was at her hip to grab her non-existent handgun, eyes wide and mouth open in a gasp. Ghost, in comparison, was a picture of pristine calm as he sat in the corner, the soft glow of a lamp sending deep shadows across the soft skull patterned balaclava. His eyes glinted.

‘Gods fucking damned hell on earth Ghost, give a girl a warning, would you?’

His large shoulders shifted in a nonchalant shrug. ‘Not my fault you can’t see with your eyes, Picasso.’

She sent a scowl his way as she put the now boiling water into her mug. If her hands shook slightly, that was no-one’s business but her own. ‘You know, I’d heard the rumour, but I didn’t think it was true.’

‘What rumour?’

Deadpan. He hid it well, his little piques of interest. But Picasso was beginning to decode him now. She turned with her steam mug, softly padding over the armchair next to the light by Ghost. Settling in, she gave the other man a look.

‘That this place is haunted.’

His soft balaclava gave so much more away than his skull mask. She could actually see the movement of his eyebrow arching incredulously.

‘Haunted.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, breathing cool air onto her mug. ‘By a ghost. Can be seen sometimes after lights out.’

He was silent.

‘You ever seen it? The ghost?’

‘No.’

‘Because I think I might have just solved the mystery.’

He almost gave her a roll of his eyes, turning back to the book that looked comically small in his hands. Picasso’s lips quirked into a grin, and she opened her own book. They settled quickly into a silence that was only broken by the occasional sound of a page turning or a sip of tea.

After some time, Picasso caught sight of the title of the book Ghost was reading. Tilting her head, she hummed. ‘Little Things Like These.’

His eyes flicked up to hers.

‘Claire Keegan. You read much Irish literature?’

‘She came recommended.’

‘Liking it so far?’

He gave a nod, before dropping his gaze to her own book. ‘And that’s Northanger Abbey?’

‘Yeah,’ she smiled, turning the well-loved book so the title page stood out. ‘It’s my favourite of hers. Probably read it at least once a year. It’s a complete piss-take of the Gothic genre, and turns out our good ol’ Jane is quite sassy when she wants to be.’

‘And that’s why you were giggling to yourself.’

‘I—’ She gave him a pout. ‘Yeah, that’s why I was giggling.’

The rest of the hour was passed quietly, both finished their teas and books and, with unspoken agreement, left with the other’s novel in their hand. Picasso found Ghost there the next evening, already a couple of chapters in. She hid triumphant smiles whenever a soft rush of air escaped the other lieutenant’s nose, about as close to a knee-slapping howl of laughter you could get.

He was there again the night after that. And the one following. And the one following that. If they didn’t have duties, she knew she would find him in the corner, lamp on, tea steaming beside him, book in hand.

One time he had two mugs on the coffee table, not just one.

‘Saved you the trouble,’ was all he said. She gave him one of her soft, genuine smiles. He had her tea ready the next night too.

Their time together often went that way: a few words spoken at the beginning, and then nothing but calming silence afterwards. Picasso was more than happy with that. The sergeants, though she loved them dearly, tended to yap constantly when not in the field. That, and the lower enlisted getting themselves into all sorts of mischief, often left her completely tuckered out.

The quietness was a balm for the two lieutenants. There was nowhere else she’d rather be.

The rumours of ghosts in the officer’s mess continued to persist.

Chapter Text

Picasso jumped slightly as a wrapped book landed with a heavy thunk on her desk.

‘Happy birthday.’

Her eyes, slightly wide, darted to Ghost as he walked by her desk, the door to their shared office softly clicking shut. She looked at the Christmas wrapping paper, then back at him.

‘What’s this?’

Ghost sat down with a grunt, clearing his throat. ‘Wha’s it look like.’ He shot her an annoyed look when he saw her still staring at him, hands frozen over her keyboard. ‘You never seen a birthday present before?.’

The beginnings of a smile crept to the corners of her lip. ‘How’d you know it was my birthday?’

He didn’t answer, turning on his desktop and clicking the mouse with a touch too much force. That smile started to grow.

‘You read my file.’

He side-eyed her.

Her smile bloomed, and, with a small laugh, she reached out to the present. She was burning with curiosity. It was thin, light in her hand. As the wrapping paper fell away, Picasso let out a small gasp and swung her chair around to face the man.

‘Shakespeare’s sonnets?’

He grunted, clearing his throat again. ‘Saw you had Much Ado About Nothing and Twelfth Night on your shelf, but no sonnets.’

‘Christ, Simon, I love this. Thank you so much.’ Picasso ran her hand across the cover, and it was only then that she felt something brush her palm when she got to the page edges. Multiple small tabs stuck out along the side, each marking a different sonnet. She practically ripped the book open to one of the tabs, and was greeted with the neat scrawl of pencil along some of the lines, Ghost's thoughts written out for her.

‘Simon, you—’

‘Thought I’d mark out the ones you’d probably like. Remembered some of the notes my English teacher made me do in my copy back in high school.’ He wasn’t looking at her. He tapped the keyboard a little too hard.

And thus Picasso realised the Ghost was one hell of a gift-giver if he so wanted to be. Christmas was no different. The Secret Santa was a raging success—Gaz got a gilded knife that made his eyes sparkled perhaps a little too brightly; Price was chuffed with his brand new straight razor; Axis was already downing a glass of the finest Scotch Whiskey; Ghost let out a rare chuckle at the little book of Aussie jokes and slang; Soap was having a little too much fun on the roller sneakers someone (Picasso) had bestowed upon him.

‘Who the hell gave Johnny the damn shoes?’ Ghost gritted out, dead eyeing everyone. Picasso didn’t blink.

That was, until it was finally her turn. It was a small box with a gimmicky Santa and reindeer combo on the front, and something inside rattled slightly as she picked it up. She picked up the lid.

‘Is that—’

She picked out a miniature sketchbook, its pages a creamy white and blank, awaiting an artist’s musings. It was wrapped in what appeared to be a waterproof casing that it could slip in and out of. It was the perfect size for a front pocked of army fatigues. Slipped into its own little attached pocket was a mechanical pencil, tipped with an eraser.

The perfect soldier’s sketchbook.

‘Picasso! Yer gonna live up to yer name?’ Soap called jovially. Picasso rolled her eyes.

‘Don’t expect any masterpieces.’

‘Aye, but if I’m yer muse, how could it not?’

She shoved his shoulder, the group chuckling. Turning over the small sketchbook, she slipped it out of its waterproof protector and felt the tooth of the pages beneath her fingertips. ‘Well, thanks to whoever gave me this,’ she said to no one in particular. ‘Now I can capture our pain and misery and frame it.’

That was met with raucous laughter and jabs, Gaz spilling out a story of Soap slipping over and getting covered in freezing mud during a recon mission, promptly getting hypothermia. Picasso laughed with the rest, fingers absently stroking little images on the pages of the sketchbook.  

Later, Ghost padded silently beside Picasso as they walked back to the officers’ quarters, both with full bellies and a buzz from the mulled wine. Picasso was humming.

‘Oh, by the way, I’ve got that book I recommended to you,’ she said as she came up to her room. Ghost nodded, following her inside. ‘My parents sent it over. Took for fucking ever. Sending anything from the other side of the world during Christmas time? A bloody nightmare.’

‘Fucking miracle anything gets delivered at all,’ Ghost agreed, gazing at her little bookshelf with his hands in his pockets.

Picasso began rummaging through a pile of parcels and letters sitting on her desk, muttering as she tried to find the book in question. There was quiet for a moment as she did so, flicking on the lamp to help with the winter darkness. ‘Now, I swear it was here…’

‘Remind me how you got Picasso as your name?’

Ghost’s sudden question cut her mutterings, and she stilled for a moment before chucking the pile onto the floor and looking through her bedside table. She grinned, sharp. ‘Picasso? Because I rearrange peoples’ faces.’

‘So not because you draw?’

‘No, of course not,’ said the woman with a roll of her eyes. Her hands flipped some spare books over, scrabbling. Suddenly she cried in triumph and held up the book—Babel—and turned around. ‘Here it is! Little bastard was hiding—'

She stopped short. In his hands, Ghost held a sketchbook. A very familiar sketchbook. Not the sketchbook she had just been gifted. He had it open, and was lazily flipping through its pages, each one scrawled with shades of black and grey.

‘How the fuck did you find that?’

He didn’t glance up at her, slowly musing through the drabbles on the pages. ‘You put in your bookshelf. Shouldn’t’ve let me have free access to it.’

Picasso felt her cheeks flame hot. No one was supposed to see it. Or know. ‘Give it back please.’

The big man hummed. He did not give it back. Picasso made to dart for it, but he was quicker.

‘Really?!’

He held it above her head, well out of her reach. That didn’t deter her; with a jump she stretched her fingers and almost touched it, instead grabbing onto his arm to bring it down to her level. She felt that need to get it away from prying eyes, to stop him before he got to the drawings of him standing, sitting, face mask, eyes, lips curled around a cigarette—

‘Why’d you lie about drawin’, huh?’

He fought her off with ease, other arm quickly capturing her shoulders and holding her tightly to him so she couldn’t jump again.

‘None of your—gah—fucking bees wax,’ she grunted.

‘You’re fucking good, Picasso.’

‘Whatever, just give it back.’

‘I especially liked the ones of the 141.’

‘Shut up!’

‘But you clearly have a favourite,’ he said, his grin evident in his voice, ‘And it isn't fucking Johnny. Am I that fun to draw?’

‘Shut up and give the fucking thing back Simon—’

‘Then tell me why you lied.’

She sagged in his grip, breathing heavy and brows thunderous. She blew a strand of hair from her face with a huffed breath. ‘Fine, yeah, my name comes from basic. Our instructor found a sketchbook I’d managed to smuggle in. Asked me if I thought I was Picasso or something and then tore it up in my face.’

Ghost felt his grin melt. His arm slowly lowered and he gently handed the black sketchbook back to her. ‘That’s fucked, Holly. M’sorry.’

She shook her head and smiled ruefully. ‘All good. That was years ago. It’s just something I’ve never really advertised. One of my few places of privacy.’ Ghost’s arm had left her shoulders now, and she fought off a shiver from the cold it left.

‘Well,’ the man said, hands in pockets. ‘You don’t have to worry about it here. Use the little one and keep this one to yourself. I won’t tell anyone.’

‘So you—did you just find it now, or…?’

Ghost had the decency to look a bit sheepish. ‘May have found it a week ago. M’sorry, it was an invasion of privacy, it just—you’re good, y’know?’

She gripped the sketchbook, cheeks still a little flushed with embarrassment. ‘So, you were the one who gave me the mini sketchbook, then.’

‘Now you can do some drawin’ when we go out. Give those itchy fingers of yours something to do.’

Picasso’s smile returned, soft. ‘Thanks, Simon.’

‘No worries, love. Just show me what you draw in it, yeah?’ His eyes crinkled at the corners. 'Especially if it's me.' It took all of his years of elite training to dodge the pillow Picasso threw at him. 

It was during a small moment of quiet some months later that Ghost found Picasso under a tree, small sketchbook in the palm of her hand and pencil etching short, confident strokes to its pages. Her eyes darted to and from some wildflowers that swayed slightly in the wind.

Ghost found that it was almost a pity that she had no coloured pencils. Each flower was a lovely array of pinks, reds and yellows amongst the green.

‘You just gonna stand there or are you joining me.’

Ghost gave a little sigh, felling guilty about spoiling the peace Picasso had. ‘Captain needs you back.’

‘Just a minute, then.’

The pencil flew faster, the blunt side shading in the darkest points of her little meadow scene. Her head tilted, eyes sharp with focus, movements so sure of themselves. A pause as she regarded it. A smile.

‘Done.’

She got her feet, brushing off her cargo pants and bending to pick up her gear. ‘Any idea what Price wants?’

Ghost grunted something about the maps and locations. He walked forwards to where Picasso had been drawing and bent at the waist. Gloved fingers stretched out and plucked a pink flower from the tall grass. He felt Picasso pause.

The big soldier turned, facing her, and deftly tucked the small flower into the corner of her front pocket.

He left without a word.

Chapter Text

Ghost didn’t actually have an aversion to touch as many assumed. Picasso would often hide an amused smirk as others practically leapt out of their way to avoid getting too close to the masked man, lest they brush up against him and earn his wrath. No, Ghost never so much as jumped when she’d land a blow on him, or clap his shoulder in congratulations of a job well done.

He never sought out touch, either. Maybe a brush of the elbow, if he needed her attention. Certainly a clasp of the forearm to swing her out of harms way. So when his hand pressed so softly to the small of her back as he edged by her in the cramped munitions room, Picasso could barely stop the gasp from leaving her lips. Her back straightened, tingling, and her wide eyes followed back of the large man as he walked past rows of bullets.

She could have dismissed it as a one-off, an accidental slip of Lieutenant Simon Riley’s professionalism, if he didn’t then do it again the next week.

‘Fuckin—who put my fucking mug…’

Picasso was not short. She wasn’t tall, certainly, but she wasn’t short. However, as her arms stretched, as she teetered on the very tips of her toes, she felt tiny. Someone had decided to put her mug on the top shelf of the kitchenette in the officer’s mess, and Picasso had already begun plotting this mysterious person’s demise.

The tips of her right hand brushed it, but only managed to push it further out of reach. ‘Fucking cunt,’ she muttered. She was sweating.

That is, until she felt the lightest of pressures on her back. A presence pushed itself behind her.

‘If y’need help, be a big girl n’ask,’ Ghost rumbled right next to her ear as his long arm reached up effortlessly to grab the mug. Picasso’s body settled back onto her feet, but she didn’t dare breath. Or blink. Or speak.

He swallowed her whole. He was so warm. His left hand settled just above her hip and gods even that one hand nearly engulfed her entire waist—

‘Here you are, Picasso.’

He settled the mug in front of her and, with an almost friendly pat on her hip, turned and left. She sucked in a breath as the looming presence of the man receded; she didn’t need to look in a mirror to know her cheeks were burning.

‘Thanks,’ she croaked. Fucking hell.

It became almost a constant from then on—a small brush here, the lightest of touches there, all fleeting and brief as though if he pressed a little more firmly, made it more real, she’d disappear.

[He came up behind her as she berated a regular enlisted for daring to disrespect her—oh, you think you’re more deserving of this beret, Corporal? You passed selection? Here, take it—the lightest of touches letting her know that he was there if she so needed.

‘Guess what, Lieutenant Riley?’

‘What is it, Lieutenant Williams.’

‘The corporal here says I’m not SAS. Can’t be, apparently.’

‘S’that right?’ Ghost said with faux surprise. ‘And why is that?’

Her voice lowered, conspiratorial. ‘I’m a woman.’

Ghost tilted his head at the concerningly pale corporal. ‘Is he aware that women have been able to apply for selection since 2018?’

‘2016 in Australia.’

‘I—I did, but I didn’t think—’

‘Shut it,’ Picasso hissed. ‘You just didn’t think they’d let one in, did you. And even if they did, they’d have to lower their standards, right?’ She stalked forward, eyes well and truly burning into the young man’s. His wide gaze flicked between her and the large man at her back. ‘No, don’t look at him. Look at me. He won’t help you.’]

Even meetings weren’t safe.

Laswell’s words instantly faded to white noise when she felt the immovable pressure of Ghost’s leg press against hers as he settled in his chair. On instinct, she shifted hers to give him space—and he followed.

Picasso’s face remained focused and intense the entire meeting, but behind her eyes was little more than frantic thoughts and the overwhelming urge to press back against the man’s firm leg. Swing over it, maybe, feel it press between her thighs as she ground her hot core over the hard muscle—

Picasso practically tore the cap off her bottle of water and chugged it. She needed to get fucking laid.

She was going insane.

He never looked at her when he did it, either. Eyes ahead, cool, detached. If she were to bring it up, confront him about all those little touches, she knew his eyes would turn to her in mild surprise, with an oh, I wasn’t aware and she’d feel like an idiot.

He will not make an idiot out of me.

So she started doing it back.

He stiffened when she placed the tips of her fingers on his waist, in the gap between his tac vest and belt, to prompt him to make some space for her at the table as the team poured over a map. She kept her eyes trained on the table, fiercely fighting a wicked grin from breaking through as she felt his gaze on her.

She would get his attention with a hand on his wrist or a tug on his sleeve; she’d hold the tips of her fingers on his bicep when speaking to him in passing, her eyes pools of innocence as his fought desperately to not snap to where they touched; she even laid her head on his shoulder feigning sleep in the heli on the way back to base.

Picasso had hoped teasing him back would lead to him either backing off or making a move or something, but it only served to make her more desperate for him to touch her.

Even in the most inappropriate moments.

She had never been so grateful for her headset in that moment. Any noise, any crackle from the radio or voice from her comrades, would come through her ears and not blast into the silent darkness that was their hiding place.

They’d buried themselves deep into the messy walk-in closet, long draped dresses falling to the floor and mercifully hiding the combat boots of the two lieutenants. Ghost was pressed, slightly hunched, into the back corner. Picasso was plastered to his front.

She could feel every light breath he took. Rapid, just as hers were.

They weren’t supposed to be here.

Picasso swore. It was supposed to be recon, a sweep of the mansion while its occupants were out. Sweep it, bug it, get in and out without a fuss.

But no. A car had come back not long after they’d left, the lady of the house running with a shout about her forgotten Dior handbag. Security followed her in, rolling their eyes behind her back as she headed to her room.

Her room, where Picasso and Ghost were.

Buried amongst designer, Picasso tried desperately to quieten her breath. It seemed so damn loud in the darkness. Clearly, Ghost agreed. His left hand came up to her face, pressing into her lower jaw. His gloved thumb missed and pressed between her lips. She didn’t think. She closed her lips around the rough cloth, tasting gunpowder and metal.

His breath hitched.

The tips of his fingers dug into her jaw in reaction, but he didn’t take his thumb out. If anything, he pressed further. Picasso’s eyes were closed, focussing on the weight of his thumb, the closeness of his body. She didn’t jolt when she felt his right hand lean his rifle against the wall and wrap around her thigh, squeezing. She sucked on his glove.

‘Fuck, love,’ he breathed, barely audible even right by her ear. ‘Quiet, yeah?’

A frantic nod from her. A squeeze on her thigh from him.

Footsteps neared them. The click click click of shoes a ticking bomb as the lady stepped into her room and made her way to the closet.

Ghost’s breathing picked up. His right hand rubbed on her thigh dangerously close to her core, each squeeze sending molten light running up and down her spine. Her senses were overwhelmed as two sides of her fought: one hypervigilant, ears trained on the clicking of heels; the other wanting nothing more than to melt into Ghost and fuck herself on his fingers. Her tongue circled his thumb. His hands gripped her leg—he’d leave bruises.

The closet door opened.

Picasso’s heart thrashed in her chest, the thundering all she could hear. Her breathing came quick and sharp, but mercifully muffled by Ghost’s hand over her jaw and the thumb in her mouth.

‘Oh, where is it,’ came the mutterings of the woman. Light flooded the walk-in, and both Picasso and Ghost stopped breathing. Waiting.

Sounds of leather squeaking, things being tossed, hands rummaging around, creeping ever so closer and closer—

‘Ah!’

Triumph. Quick steps, a flick of the light, and she was gone. Rapid fire words to her security as she left her bedroom, high voice disappeared slowly down the hall.

Still they didn’t breath.

The car started up. Gravel crunched. The gate swung shut with a crying shriek.

Ghost’s hand dove between her thighs.

Picasso’s high gasp was muffled by his thumb, now pressing in and out as he practically fucked her mouth. But that was almost forgotten when his right hand pressed so deliciously against her sex, sending sharp bright sparks throughout her body. He set a merciless pace, rubbing quick circles over her clothed pussy.

Even through the layers of camo, he found her clit with deadly accuracy.

Picasso whimpered as Ghost gripped her head and pressed it back against his shoulder, her jaw now hanging open. His thumb continued to fuck her lips, and she swirled her tongue around it like it was his cock.

Ghost groaned.

‘Fuckin hell…’

Her hips jolted against his hand, rolling desperately against the pressure. Ghost wasn’t having it. His forearm clamped down and pressed her flush against his body, trapping her. The unmistakable nudge of his straining cock at her back had Picasso whining. She rocked back against him. Ghost swore.

‘Stop tha’, you minx. Take what you’re given.’

His fingers dug in almost cruelly into her pussy, movement quickening as her panted whines became higher and higher in pitch.

‘Tha’s it, tha’s it,’ Ghost chanted, his own voice becoming strained. ‘Take it.’

‘Mmph,’ she mumbled around his thumb. ‘Ghosht…’

‘I know, love.’

The burning was fierce. It climbed higher and higher far too quickly, jolting her, coiling tight in her belly as Ghost panted in her ear, fucking her mouth with his fingers in the darkness of a closet in an enemy’s house—

With a sharp cry Picasso came undone.

Her body seized up, shaking in his arms as his fingers continued to circle her clothed clit, almost immediately turning into deliciously painful overstimulation. Ghost’s left hand came down to her throat, gently cupping it to him and letting her cries spill out into the darkness. Eventually he let his hands soften, arms holding the now sagging body of the female lieutenant.

‘Bravo 0-7, you there? How copy? Over.’

Gaz’s voice cracked over the headsets, the radio shattering the moment. Picasso’s eyes shot open and she tensed up. Ghost didn’t move. His voice was gruff.

‘Solid. Didn’t get caught. Leaving the room now with Picasso. Meet in the dining room, over.’

They were crammed next to each other, silent, as the heli dipped and jostled in the turbulence. The sergeants were dozing—or in Axis’s case, completely out cold—and Picasso just couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to see the cold distance she knew must be in his eyes.

He’d barely spoken when they’d left the closet, planting the bugs and meeting the others in the dining hall. His actions were sharp, sleek, so fucking professional, completely unruffled. Picasso had tried to put on a mask of cool indifference, but she knew the fucked-out look was still veiled over her face. She just hoped the sergeants attributed it to a shakiness at them almost being caught.

Her eyes had never quite been able to leave Ghost’s figure as they got to exfil. Never could quite stop the yearning for his hands on her. Something. Anything to tell her it wasn’t all a dream. Or a nightmare. A mistake.

Her mind stormed and buffeted against her skull. Thoughts swirled in a never-ending circle as she tried to not think about the closet, the wetness between her thighs, the heaviness of his cock on her back, the silence that had followed.

Her thoughts roared. So loud, they drowned out the heli. So loud, she almost missed the brush against her hand. Her eyes snapped down to it resting on her thigh next to Ghost. His pinky finger nudged hers.

She nudged his back.

His giant hand shifted and slowly curled around hers, threading their fingers together.

Chapter Text

‘You’ve done well.’

‘Fucking gorgeous shot.’

‘Good work out there, Picasso.’

Ghost’s praise is as allusive as his namesake. Non-existent in the beginning, then turning to the odd grunt, maybe a clap on the back. A gruff ‘good’ became the unicorn Picasso sought after—she was his equal in rank and responsibility, but perhaps it was innate human nature to desire something rare.

Except, as time went on, the ‘good’ became ‘fucking good’, ‘well done’, ‘bloody great’ and Picasso didn’t quite know what to do with herself. Perhaps those words meant what they said. Perhaps they said so much more.

‘You hungry?’ I love you.

Picasso shook her head, leaning against the side of the low brick building and turning slightly to look at the big man. ‘All good. You?’

‘Never really hungry after coming back.’

She nodded. The adrenaline of a mission usually stuck around, better than any shot of caffein. Hence why the two lieutenants were outside, in the cold, at god-knows what hour, and not sleeping like their captain told them to.

‘Look at the moon.’ I love you.

Following his gaze, her lips twitched up into a smile. The moon now kissed the top of the tree line, full to bursting, her light starting the bath the base in silvery brilliance. It made even the most utilitarian building seem…peaceful.

‘She’s beautiful.’

‘She is.’ I love you.

Picasso didn’t see how his eyes turned to her. They both stood in the peaceful quiet of the night, breathing in the cool air and listening to the little rustle of night-time citizens. After some time, it was Ghost who broke the quiet.

‘Don’t do that again.’

‘Do what?’ Picasso turned to him, brows low in confusion.

‘On the mission. Don’t do that again.’

Recognition dawned. ‘Don’t get between you and a gun?’

‘Don’t be a hero.’

‘We’re soldiers, Ghost. We get into danger.’ She chuckled lightly. ‘Don’t tell me it’s okay for you to risk your hide for me, but I can’t do the same.’

‘No, Picasso, it’s not—I know, love, our job’s dangerous.’ He was fully facing her now, close enough that the moonlight glinted off his grey eyes. ‘Just…with this, with Makarov—get in, get out, survive. Nothin’ more.’

‘I can’t just—’

‘Please.’

That one word floored her. Ghost never said please. He never stood within a whispers breath, brows furrowed and eyes holding a desperation so delicately within, never gave so much as a hint of pleading. And yet. Here he was.

‘I…only if you promise the same, Simon.’

His bare fingers brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, settling on the side of her head. She leaned into it, savouring the tenderness. Fuck, she yearned for it.  

‘I promise, Holly.’

He rolled up the soft skull-imprinted balaclava, revealing his lips for just a second as he dipped down and softly sealed his oath. And so she accepted it, leaning into him and hands rising to grip the front of his fatigues as their lips moved reverently.

She sank into the softness, the nicotine-sweetness of him, tilting her head in his hand to press herself further, further, and further still until she became indistinguishable from him. What with the mission that was Makarov, Picasso only now realised how much she yearned for him. All of him.

She surged upward to wrap her arms around his shoulders and press his lips—almost bruising—to her own. Her tongue flicked out to taste him. His chuckle was swallowed up by her kiss, but the sweetness began to turn as his hand flexed in her hair and he licked into her mouth.

Her breathy whimper caught in her throat. Ghost grunted and his other hand gripped the small of her waist to press her flush against him. Her feet became unsteady, but her held her tight.

It wasn’t enough.

The adrenaline of the day had left her exhausted, yes, but pent up. All that energy had to go somewhere and, mixed with the near constant burn of desire she had for her fellow lieutenant, created a concoction that was damn near explosive.

The tips of her fingers slipped under his balaclava to scrape deliciously against his scalp. Her hips began to roll against him.

‘Desperate little thing,’ Ghost whispered between kisses. But he couldn’t help the buck of his hips, grinding his growing hardness into her heat, her soft body so pliant in his hands. This strong, brave, brash woman who spit out orders and led her soldiers through hellfire with complete confidence, was so fucking soft when he had his hands on her.

Him. Only him.

Picasso’s whimpers of pleasure stated to grow louder as she rolled her hips over the thigh he’d pushed between her core. The burn was beginning to grow unbearable.

‘’M not fucking you on the concrete,’ Ghost panted. He gently pushed her off him, nearly combusting on the spot at her hazy gaze and spit-slicked reddened lips. ‘Get to the barracks.’

That silenced the indignant cries of the woman and she quickly turned to the entrance of the building. He landed a cheeky smack on her arse, chuckling at her surprised squeak. Picasso didn’t even think about where she was actually going; her feet knew the way and kept her two ahead of the hulking man with eyes of sin.

He gripped her hand as she reached for the door of her room, moving some steps onwards to his own instead.

She didn’t glance around the spartan room, having seen it before. Her eyes could only take in the Ghost as he closed the door with a resounding click and turned his dark gaze to her.

For a breath, they stared.

Perhaps not quite believing the other was still there, standing, alive, after the shit-show of the previous week.

But they were there. Standing. Alive.

The cord snapped and Ghost ripped the balaclava off to reveal Simon, and Picasso wasted no time in putting her hot lips back on his. He groaned as her fingers ran through short strawberry-blond hair, tugging slightly. She smiled into the kiss.

His broad hands gripped her ribcage, thumbs brushing underneath her breasts—her nipples pebbled and she gasped against his greedy mouth. He was addicted to those sounds. He wanted more.

Crowding her against the bed, the kiss broke as she plopped down, doe-eyed gaze wide and staring. Waiting.

‘Fuckin’ hell, Holly,’ he muttered. She was going to be the death of him, and on his tombstone it would say that Simon Riley died a happy man. ‘Shirt off, love.’

Holly’s hands were a blur as she rid herself of her fatigues—why were they so hard to remove, anyway?—until she was just in her bra. Reaching for the clasp, she stilled as Simon sunk down on his knees, hands gently replacing hers. With a practiced move, he unclasped them and slid them off with a sigh. His gaze was hot and heavy-lidded.

Gently, reverently almost, he cupped her pert breasts, pressing into the softness, and thumb brushed feather-light across her nipples.

‘Gorgeous,’ he murmured, then dipped his head to latch onto one of the pebbled buds. Holly sucked in a breath at the feeling of his hot mouth sucking and lucking at her breast. She squealed as he gently nipped. Fuck, that went straight to her core.

‘Simon, gods—'

‘Mhmm.’

His hum sent a delicious shiver down her spine. The man himself ignored the insistent tugs on his hair, completely unhurried as he switched from one tit to another. Still, Holly couldn’t help but pant as he continued to suck and nip, her hips rolling forward to press the seam of her cargo pants against her aching clit, desperate for any kind of relief.

Simon, leaning over her as he was, felt the movement and let out a chuckle.

‘Desperate girl. Is this not enough for you?’

‘God, Simon,’ she gasped. ‘You’re driving me crazy.’

‘’M sorry, love,’ he drawled, not looking sorry at all. ‘Let me fix that for you.’

A few buttons and a zipper later and her cargo trousers joined the rest of her fatigues on the floor of his room. Her underwear quickly followed, and without any preamble, he hooked her legs over his shoulders and dove straight between her thighs. Holly could only let out a gasp of surprise before Simon unleashed an onslaught of pleasure.

‘Holy shit—’

Normally he took his time—he had been, up until this moment—but something about the glisten of her drenched need and the adrenaline of the day pitched a hunger he could not deny. The smell and taste of her was heady and savoury, drawing him into the primal need to get closer, deeper, to pleasure—

Holly let out a sharp moan as Simon dipped her tongue into her, his strong nose grinding into her clit deliciously. His jaw worked between her legs, eyes closed in concentration and hands gripping her thighs so tightly they’d leave fingerprint bruises the next day.

Her moans and cries rose in pitch with the mounting pleasure. He’d fucked her enough times by now to know how to take her apart with deadly precision. Since that time in the closet on that mission, he’d etched the pattern of her breathing, the roll of her hips, the tightness of her fingers on his hands into his very soul.

Addicted. He was hopelessly addicted.

‘Simon, fuck, Simon please.’

And when she said his name like that?

He focussed on her clit, giving it a hard suck as her thighs began to shake with pleasure. Simon pried a hand from her leg and shifted it to just above her mons, and pressed.

Holly came with a cry, her orgasm rolling through her body in fiery hot waves, hands gripping his hair with white knuckles.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, Simon—’

He wasn’t stopping. He pressed his face even harder, practically suffocating himself on her pussy, tongue lathing up and down over her sensitive nub. His right hand crept down, pushing a finger in and immediately started assaulting her g-spot.

Holly cried, sobbing out her pleasure as her mind went white. Her orgasm crested again, crashing into her even hard than the first as she was left delightfully unmoored.

Simon smiled against her cunt.

‘S’beautiful,’ he murmured, cheek laying on the inside of her soaked thigh. His finger slowed, gently messaging the last of the aftershocks as Holly lay panting on the bed. Simon kissed her thighs, gently withdrawing his hand. She whimpered. Rising up, he silenced her with a slow, sloppy kiss that left the woman moaning at the taste of herself on his lips.

‘Love when you’re like this,’ whispered the soldier. ‘All fucked out.’

She whined and weakly slapped a hand on his side. Simon chuckled, but it wasn’t mean. She was soft. Radiant.

He felt a tug on his shirt.

‘What?’

Holly cracked open her hazy eyes and pouted. ‘S’not fair.’

‘What’s not fair, pretty girl?’

‘The shirt. Take it off.’

He stood back up in front of the bed, keeping his eyes trained on hers as he grinned. ‘Oh. I see.’ He took a hold of the collar and tugged. ‘You want this off?’

She nodded.

‘You really want to see me, hmm?’

Another nod, frantic this time.

‘So what’s the magic word, love?’

‘Please,’ she blurted out, raising up onto her forearms. Simon had to stop a groan at how the motion pushed her tits out. ‘Please Simon, I want to see you.’

He was never one to deny her what she wanted.

The shirt was soon discarded, and Simon let Holly have a moment. A part of himself wanted to run and hide from her. Another part preened at the parted mouth and heavy gaze. She could never get tired of seeing him—a body built for strength and endurance, tattoos sneaking up his forearm to his shoulder and chest. A combat scar or two—but not as many as one may think—told stories of his profession. A warrior.

Her eyes met his.

‘Pants too.’

He quirked an eyebrow, but his hands went to unbuckle his belt. Holly dropped her gaze to the tent straining his fatigues. Unconsciously she bit her lip.

‘Tha’ desperate for it, are you?’ came Simon’s amused voice. She rolled her eyes at him.

‘I’m waiting here, literally naked and dripping.’

‘Attitude,’ he tutted, cargos dropping to the floor. Boxers quickly followed. ‘Am I gonna have to fuck you dumb again?’

Holly gave him a defiant glare, but began backing up the bed towards the pillows. Simon slowly fisted his cock as it stood to attention, smearing some of the precum across the tip in an effort to relieve some pressure. She never failed to make him as hard as a rock.

He sunk a knee to the bed, shifting up as he began to crowd her against the head of the bed.

‘You’re not my CO, Ghost,’ she snarked back, but still her legs opened to invite him between them.

‘Tha’s a pity,’ Simon hummed, giant arms settling either side of her head. ‘I’d quite like hearing you call me sir.’ He didn’t miss the way her cheeks flushed pink.

‘Will you just fuck me already?’

His chuckled was soft, rumbling against her ear as he dipped his head to her neck to leave delicate kisses. He wouldn’t mark her there, where others could see. Not yet. Not until they were far away from base, from Makarov and Shepherd, not until they were curled up on the peace of his Manchester flat—

‘Riley, I swear to all the gods above and below.’ Her frustrated voice brought him back. ‘If you don’t start doing something—ah fuck!’

Simon rolled his hips as he finally settled between her legs, his cock pressing deliciously against her. He didn’t hide his groan as they both instantly started moving against each other. Her gasps and whines felt as gospel choirs on his sinner’s ears.

‘Fuck, love.’

Her slick had coated her core and thighs, practically dripping out of her, and now as he ground his desperately hard cock against her cunt, it offered little resistance.

Simon latched a hand to one of her thighs as they riled together, fingers seeping into the softness there. An idea flashed into his mind. How many times had those thighs distracted him? The curve of them as she curled up on the couch with too-short shorts, the strength of them in the field, the feel of them wrapped around him.

He sat up, stilling his movement. Holly nearly cried.

‘Simon, for fucks sake—’

She was interrupted by a sharp smack to the arse.

‘Patience, pretty girl.’ His hands ran up and down her legs, slowly squeezing them together as his cock lay hot and heavy on her clit. She gasped when he gave short thrusts as her thighs squeezed shut, her slick leaving her core amply lubed. His cock slid in and out of the gap with ease, the cockhead bumping her clit every time.

‘Fuck,’ Simon groaned, eyes falling shut as her glorious thighs swallowed him. ‘Feel’s good, so good for me, love.’

‘I—hah—shit, Simon.’

His pace picked up gradually leaving Holly’s hands scrambling for purchase. Simon then straightened her legs out and lay them across his chest and shoulder, breath stuttering slightly. His hips rocked more firmly now, slicing through her hot folds and over her clit every time. Holly could feel the tightening of her lower belly, her hole fluttering around nothing as he used her.

Simon noticed.

‘Could you come from this?’ His gaze was hot and heavy, slightly breathless. Holly could only whine and squirm under him. ‘I know, I know love, just—fuck—let me use you like this a little longer. I’ll fuck that pussy nice and proper, I promise.’

So stoic otherwise, his words would flow like holy water when he had her in his arms. And those words were all she needed for that simmering desire to sharpen.

‘Oh shit shit shit.’

Their breathing was loud now. Holly’s hands gripped the pillows, the blankets, her breasts. One made its way to the centre of her core, where the head of Simon’s cock would peep out as he thrust between her legs. She cupped a palm there so he hit it every time he passed over her throbbing clit.

‘Holly, fuck, ‘m not gonna last if you do that,’ he panted, stuttering slightly. ‘Just gonna have to make you come first. I know you’re close, can feel how desperately you’re—fuck—you can do that, can’t you? Be a good girl and come for me?’

Holly moaned, eyes screwed shut and legs shaking. She was right there, each pass through her folds euphoric. Simon kissed her ankles as he panted out sweet encouragement, thrusts speeding up again.

‘You’re gonna do it, aren’t you? You’re gonna come? Go on, sweet girl, my pretty woman, come for me, come on.’

His voice was all she could hear as she tipped over the edge yet again, slick dripping out and staining the sheets as she shuddered in pleasure. Almost instantly she was flipped, broken voice muffled by a pillow as Simon manhandled her face down, arse up. Notching his cock, he filled her up in one smooth thrust, large size eased by her multiple orgasms.

‘Atta girl,’ he positively growled into her ear as he started rutting into her, precision and discipline be damned in favour of pure, primal pleasure. ‘Look at this greedy cunt, taking all of me.’

He pulled her hair from her sweat-slicked neck, pressing his lips there.

‘Like you were made f’me.’

All she could do was whine and sob, hips weakly pressing back to Simon’s desperate thrusts as he chased his pleasure. He’d been so wired for so long, he knew it wouldn’t last. His hand dipped to her core, pressing calloused fingers there.

‘I want one more,’ he grunted.

She whimpered, eyes tearing up. ‘Can’t.’

‘Shh,’ he hushed, deceptively soft as his fingers pressed hard circles to her overstimulated clit. ‘Yes you can. I want one more, Holly. You’re going to give me one fucking more, y’hear?’

He gave her pussy a light slap and she nodded.

‘Good fucking girl.’

He pushed her shoulders down even further, large body curling completely around her as his hips rutted into her. Her back was arched beyond what she though capable, hand scrabbling for the headboard as Simon’s pants and groans fell hot on her ear.

Him. All of him.

She was so utterly consumed.

His hips tilted slightly and hit something devastating inside her. ‘Holy fuck!’

‘There it is,’ he hissed, battering that spot again and again and again, fingers furious over her clit. ‘Not long now, can feel how you’re tightening on my cock—shit Holly, you’re so fucking hot an’ tight, best fucking cunt I’ve ever had—shit, shit, shit.’

She couldn’t form words, mouth open and drawling. It was so much. Too much.

‘Gonna come, Holly. Gonna come sweet girl, you feel too fucking good—hah, hah—I’ll fill you up, good and proper. Oh, you like that, got s’tight.’

The wave loomed.

‘Gonna make you mine—fill you up until you’re full, until you never want another dick in your life…shit, no-one could give it to you this good, no-one could fill you up like me because you’re mine, mine, mine.’

The wave crashed.

They both drowned in it, gasping and moving as the pleasure washed over them, Simon letting out a damn whimper as he spilled himself inside her. Holly slumped, boneless, onto the ruined sheets.

His words never quite left her head, later, when tucked up in his bed (with fresh sheets), snuggled against him. He said new words now, far from lust and tainted with something soft, sweet, vulnerable.

‘You’re so beautiful.’ I love you.

She smiled lazily. ‘No, you are.’

Simon snorted. ‘Aren’t I supposed to be handsome?’

‘That too.’

‘Are you comfy?’ I love you.

‘Mhmm. I’ve got you as my pillow. Couldn’t be comfier.’

He hummed, a hand stroking the top of her head. She could almost hear the gears turning in his head. It was spoken in the restless movement of his hands, in the almost mechanic pattern of his breathing. In her months of knowing him, she had become fluent in his language. Which was why she wasn’t totally surprised when he said—

‘I love you.’ I love you.

She borrowed her head into his chest, giddy.

‘I know. You’ve been telling for a while now, haven’t you? In your various ways.’

He was silent for a moment, the vulnerability fighting in his eyes. But with a deep breath, he trusted his heart unto her. ‘Yeah.’

She smiled. Soft, slow, full. Leaning in close, her lips brushed his cheek.

‘I love you too.’