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“Rain ” his voice drawls, “look at me” he instructs, although the words lack the usual edge of the orders he barks on the battlefield.
Rain - the callsign started as a mean remark. “All you do is rain on our parade”. The squad had taken some time to understand how crucial her role was. Supply and planning manager. Yeah, sometimes she was the annoying one.
We need to stay one more day to gather more water, it’s not negotiable.
No, we don’t have enough ammo left for this mission, we must postpone.
But truth is, when the crew realized she single handedly prevented them from dying of thirst during that last-minute mission in the desert, they started to really value her presence. Then they noticed how the food supplies and the level of weaponry available were noticeably better. How everything was smoother. Well planned. As oiled and brutally efficient as a brand new gun. Rain may finish last at every arm wrestling competition, but she has become a vital member of the squad.
If he were honest, Ghost had also been skeptical at first when the higher-ups dropped the young thing in their lap. He expected a doe-eyed fresh-out-of-the-academy too-enthusiastic rookie. It was indeed her first mission in the field. But she was secretive, very quiet, carefully observing her environment, cataloging everything and everyone. She was kind of a nerd, quick to learn about any topics needed. She was effective in her work. He saw that from the very start, unlike his other colleagues.
Rain - the nickname was demeaning at first, but Ghost always found it very apt. She had that melancholia in her steps, eyes that shined with an ancient sadness he could not ignore. She sometimes felt like a storm, moody and somber and powerful all at once. Yet she had that soothing aura, like how rain can feel calming. Everytime he thought he had finally pinned her down, understood the kind of person she really was, she would do something he didn’t expect. He wanted to hold her in his palm and look at her, yet she refused to stay put, water sliding through his fingers.
He likes her. A lot. A lot more than what he is ready to admit.
She lets him in her bubble. Rain and Ghost. It’s so cliché, he doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to put a name on whatever they have, but it’s been going on for months now.
This current mission is hard. Tough on the bodies and the minds. Everyone is on edge. Even Soap seems to be making fewer jokes. Rain follows every order, every unrealistic demand without so much as blinking. She’s pushing through too long days, forgetting sleep most of the nights. But she can take it for so long. Ghost knows it. Has seen her crumble before, a year or so ago, after a particularly gruesome mission. She went mute for a week straight, slept through one more after that. Only then, was she able to come back. No one really acknowledged it. Weirder things had happened to men under crushing pressure.
“Rain” he gently asks again, “look at me”. Ghost is patient. Despite being stuck on base with her, he hasn’t heard her voice for the past two days. It’s happening again. It’s bad. He had waited the entire day to be finally able to go see her, in the small makeshift office she’s been working - and sleeping - in since they’ve arrived in this God-forsaken place. She’s standing by a desk, hunched over a bunch of maps and scattered transcripts of orders and intel. Shoulders tensed.
Finally, she turns to him. Eyes empty and pleading all at once. Something clenches in Simon’s chest at her defeated appearance. She’s still beautiful though, even under the faint glow of the dying neon light. She looks at the floor, jaw tightly clenched. She won’t speak. She can’t. Everything is too much. He understands.
He approaches her like one would a shy cat, hand reaching for her slow enough to let her avoid it if she wants. But she doesn’t flinch away. Ghost hooks his gloved fingers under her chin, the pressure barely there so she will raise her gaze. There is a beat of silence when she cranes her neck to be able to look at his face. He’s so tall, so big compared to her, it’s almost comical.
His hands move and he starts signing.
What do you need?
He’s using an intricate mix of hand signals developed for the squad and classic signs - it’s impossible to understand for anyone outside of their group, their very own language. Secret words.
Her eyes grow big with relief. He’s giving her permission to not speak.
I don’t know
She signs back.
I can’t think
I don’t want to think
Simon recognizes what she truly means, and he moves quick enough to stop her from spiraling further down.
***
He lays her down on the minuscule cot backed up against the wall of the office. He doesn’t bother to lock the door, no one would dare come here when they know Ghost is with her.
His body blankets hers, hiding her from the rest of the world. He’s careful, holding his weight on his forearms. But she needs him, she tugs on the straps of his tac gear, pleading him to crush her, to press against her chest until she can finally feel safe.
Her nimble fingers reach for his mask, lift it above his lips. She kisses him like he’s been gone for a year, tongue licking his teeth, her hands fisted in his black hoodie.
Ghost groans into her mouth, he wants to drink her distress, to help her spit out the anxious poison eating her from the inside.
“You tap me three times if you want to stop.” His voice is thick, so low it sends shivers right between her legs. “Show me you understand.” he requests, wary of his tone.
I do
Her small hands form right in front of his face.
“Good girl” he rasps, indulging her, and her breath sticks in her throat for a second. He chuckles.
He’s the one kissing her now. He holds her jaw with both his hands, he fucks her mouth with his tongue, tastes her gums. It’s vulgar but she likes it. It’s like he’s licking her sorrow away.
His body is massive on her, and if he hadn’t seen her train with the rest of the guys, he would be too scared to break her bones when he gets her under him. She’s so delicate. And she’s also not. She can drink enough whiskey to earn respect from Price himself. He heard about her breaking one soldier’s nose with her heel two weeks after she got here when the guy sneaked under her shower curtain. She doesn’t need Ghost to hold her ground. He’s fine staying in her shadow.
***
Ghost is hooking her legs on his shoulders, handling her pliant body with more reverence than she wished. She hiccups when he moves again, a broken sound that makes him pulse inside her. She feels so incredibly tight around his cock. He has spent a lot of time making sure she was all slick and open. Has stuck his tongue and his fingers inside her soft cunt, stayed there despite her impatience, has made her come a couple of times before even trying to fit himself between her legs. It’s a whole process because of his size.
He remembers the first time they’d done it. She had literally gasped when he had removed his pants. A low and frantic fuck, shit, Simon. With enough praise and time, he had finally buried his cock to the hilt inside her, the pressure constant and maddening. It had taken all his restraint not to start fucking her hard and fast, each clench of her cunt the most delicious torture.
She snakes her hand under his balaclava, fists her hands into his hair, in the long strands above the cropped velvet on his nape. He drags his cock slowly on her walls, before punching back with a powerful snap of his hips. He hits something deep, would be afraid to puncture something vital if she was someone else. But she’s tough, she takes him so well , she's perfect . All slick, a primal power thrumming under her skin, as she trembles and buries her face against his chest. She doesn’t answer his praise with words, but he understands her nonetheless, her breathless little cries, her desperate sobs, almost like she’s in pain although she’s not. Definitely not.
He keeps fucking her, pressing his chest against her tits, until he rises back. He stays buried in the clutch of her cunt, while pressing his thumb on her swollen clit. She scrambles at the waxy fabric of the sleeping bag under her, mewls. Half the platoon can probably hear them. Ghost decides he will kill the first man he hears making a crude joke about it.
“Don’t fight it, come on girl, I want to feel you cum on my cock.”
His voice so low, white hot fire to the gasoline of her pleasure. A tear leaves her eye, pupil blown out. He follows the path of the saline bead, bends at the waist and sticks out his tongue to lick it away. Rain , he thinks, she tastes like rain, fresh and earthy and real.
He circles her clit again, angles his thumb and the blunt edge of his nail catches against the tender flesh. The missing spark. She wails as she shatters, her stretched cunt desperately clenching on his fat cock.
He engulfs her, falls down on his forearms, folding her in two once again, praises and reassurances rolling off his tongue as she finally emerges on the other side of her devastating orgasm. So good - so good. You’re safe, shhh I know it’s a lot, you’re taking it so well.
He starts moving again, the last tremors of her pleasure not so quite gone, and her hands fly up in front of his face.
Too- too much. She signs with shaky fingers.
He halts his movement, eyes dark, black paint leaving even darker veins in the crease of his skin. Tendrils of night around his pupils.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, tone concerned but devoid of blame.
One breath. Two. Her lower lip caught between her teeth. Her face relaxes. There is the ghost of a smile. And then she shakes her head no. He complies to her command.
***
He holds her against his chest under the lukewarm spray of the shitty shower. They barely fit inside the small stall. He has removed the mask, and the water smudges the black paint on his lids further than their previous activities. Trails of dark pigment over the white slashes of scars. She lets him wash her, he presses soap on her sweaty skin, his hands huge on her naked frame.
Once they’re dry, he lays her down again on her cot, requests in a whisper that she sleeps a little. He doesn’t say it to her, but he’ll stand guard in front of her door, turn down anyone for the next handful of hours so she can rest. He nuzzles one last time against the crown of her head. Her hair is damp from the shower. The mask is back on Simon’s face. But even through the fabric, he can tell: she smells like rain. He likes her. A lot.