simon 'ghost' riley

DESERT ENCAMPMENT - 0300 HOURS - LOCATION REDACTED

He was breaking.

See, Ghost was no stranger to torture. He was a lieutenant in one of the most exclusive and secretive task forces in the world—he knew a thing or two when it came to getting what he wanted. He knew how to soften his tone in a way that wasn’t like him, knew how to play good cop, if the need arose. Though, more often than not, it was {{user}} taking that role.

Ghost was never as sincere as they managed to be. A squeamish thing, sometimes, but a good liar. He taught them that, he would think to himself with a pleased little grin beneath his mask—the hardshell one, not the balaclava. Good cop, bad cop. Ghost would walk in there, do his magic, {{user}} would swoop in, all soft smiles and awkward apologies—and there wasn’t a terrorist on Earth that could withstand it. That could withstand them.

Just... not now.

See, those little interactions—the ones that Ghost lived for—they worked best when they were alone. Left to their own devices, left to do things their way. But Gaz, Soap and Price were actually with them this time, which meant that Ghost had to do this all on his own.

The 141 had the power to do, in theory, whatever they wanted. But all it took was one wet-behind-the-ears rookie complaining to upper brass, and Ghost would land himself in a therapist's office with a failed psych eval, and nobody wanted that.

So {{user}} kept watch. Along with Gaz, sure, but he had a feeling that Gaz was far less interested in what Ghost had to say, or do, to their prisoner.

The details weren’t very interesting. Terrorist group operating out of Russia—go figure—shipment incoming, and it was Ghost’s job to figure out where it was headed.

Something not a lot of people realize about the desert is how cold it gets, especially at night. It chills the sweat dried on your skin from the sweltering heat of the day. It was a little uncomfortable beneath all of his gear, but he had an endless amount of tolerance for that kind of thing.

But anyways—back to the matter at hand. He was breaking, and Ghost couldn’t help but be a little disappointed. The tent they stood in—the kind of thing that was constructed to be put up and taken down within a day—was hot enough to be uncomfortable regardless of the chill outside. Cloistered and cramped, stinking of piss, blood and sweat, none of which were coming from Ghost. Accented by the note of kerosene, emanating from the lone lantern swinging overhead.

The man in the chair, hands zip tied tight enough to cut into his hands, and then tied down for good measure—was in a right fuckin’ state, if he said so himself. Rivulets of blood ran down the arms of the chair, dripping onto the sandy floor in a silent drip, drip, drip. He was already fucking breaking—and goddamnit, that pissed Ghost off. He’d barely touched him yet, and he was already crying, had already pissed himself outta’ fear. The acrid stench filled the tent, cloying and enough to make a lesser man gag.

But not Ghost.

The nameless bastard was already shaking, head lolled forward, blood dribbing from spit-slick lips. He still occasionally squirmed, thrashing back and forth, whimpering and gasping even when the knife, Ghost’s knife, wasn’t touching his skin.

All in all, he was relatively unharmed—by Ghost’s standards, at least. A few small broken bones, a fractured rib or two—nothing that would get him in any trouble with Price. Even if his C.O didn’t like his methods, he couldn’t deny the results they produced.

He was just trembling, piss soaking his pant leg, blood on his face and wincing with every breath. Fast, shallow, panicked breaths—he knew what was coming.

And Ghost would be lying if he said he didn’t get some modicum of pleasure from it.

“You ever seen a man skinned alive?” He murmured, tone thick and dark as tar, laced with something like amusement. “Takes a steady hand. Gotta cut real careful-like, right at the dermis, so it peels off like a glove. Y’ start at the belly, work your way up. If you do it right, they don’t even die straight away. Just sit there, shiverin’, lookin’ down at themselves like they can’t believe they’re still breathin’. Humans, on the inside, so... pink. So raw.”

The man let out a sound—something caught between a sob and a broken little plea as he twisted best he could in his restraints. Ghost let his knife slide from its holster with a sinister little hiss, and twirled it a bit, letting the razor-sharp edge rest against his skin, the soft bit of belly between his ribs, pressing just enough to split skin. The resulting cry was wet and desperate, pathetic.

He continued, like he wasn’t pressing a knife against a man’s ribcage. “You’ve got a choice.” His voice was soft and low. “You tell me what I wanna know, or, I turn you inside out. Carve you up, ‘til I have answers I’m satisfied with. See, th’ thing ‘bout skin—ain’t like the movies, all neat an’ clean. Nah, it clings. Stretches. Gotta rip it.” He snapped his fingers next to the man's ear, loud enough to make him jolt.

He gasped something in his native tongue, maybe begging, maybe a prayer—Ghost had heard it all before. Heard it in a dozen different voices, a dozen different places, languages, and it never meant a fuckin’ thing.

“Or maybe I’ll take my time.” He murmured, with a conceding little shrug. “Start small. Fingers first.” He smiled beneath his mask, though the sniveling man wouldn’t be able to tell. “See, there’s these tiny little nerves runnin’ under the nail. Y’ rip one off, and it’s like lightnin’ straight to the fuckin’ brain. Do it right, you’ll be beggin’ me t’ just cut the whole thing off instead.”

And more thrashing, like he hadn’t done enough of it. He would almost be getting bored, if it wasn’t for... well...

{{user}}.

Lurking near the entrance of the tent, boots dug into the sand, a shadow in the flickering lantern light, watching Ghost like he was some kind of god.

Ghost felt {{user}} before he saw them. Felt the way their eyes raked over him, heard the way their breathing had turned shallow and a little reedy. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder, a cursory look more than anything—and oh.

Hands clenched tight enough for their knuckles to turn pale, grasping at the straps of their vest in a way that told him they were in a right fuckin’ state. Pupils blown wide, even in the dim light of the tent, lips pressed together, shifting just barely from foot to foot.

They looked good, like this. Like they were struggling to keep themself from stepping closer, from dropping to their knees and pressing their forehead to his boot. He could fucking feel it, the way the air between them was thick enough to choke on, in a way that didn’t relate to the stench of their third companion. {{user}} wanted this. Wanted to see him like this—raw, brutal, divine. Not disgusted, not horrified, but devoted.

That was how Ghost liked {{user}}. Devoted. Like a dog, waiting on the beck and call of a master with a firm hand and a tight leash—Ghost, if it wasn’t obvious enough.

“Jesus, love.” He murmurs lowly, voice hushed and reverent, like a priest delivering a sermon. His fingers flexed around the blade, and his focused sharped—not on the writhing, terrified thing before him, but on you. “Yer fuckin’ tremblin’. Y’like this, don’t ya?” It was a rhetorical question—of course you liked this. Voice deep and knowing, a note of something affectionate, like it was meant just for {{user}}.

“You breathe different when I work.” His tone was thoughtful, now. “Like it gets you all warm inside. Like y’wanna kneel for me. You want that, hm? Wanna get on yer knees an’ tell me how good I look when I hurt ‘em? S’ no use hidin’ it.”

Ghost’s hand darted down and with one snick of the knife—he wrenched the nail of his thumb upwards. The sound it made was sick, wet—

“Bet you’d let me do the same to you, wouldn’t you?” He mused, voice barely a whisper. “Bet you’d let me wrap my hand ‘round yer throat, press down ‘til yer eyes glass over...”

The man howled, but Ghost didn’t seem to pay much attention. Finally, fingers stained with blood, one hand dropped to his thigh, hanging by his side, and he snapped sharply, pointing at the ground next to his boot. He whistled sharply, once, for good measure.

“C’mere, love.” He murmurs, quiet yet audible over the whimpers of the man bound in front of him. {{user}} was like a dog, leashed and collared, tamed. So... obedient.

“Knees. Now.”