OPR—Chapter 5: K.
Summary: With the ARK operation and asset extraction at its end, all that remained was a calm, slow life at the base. That slow life, however, was accompanied by other demons you'd rather not talk about.
Warnings: Profanities | Smoking | Physical activity—running | SMUT (nothing too insane/explicit—masturbation) | Some awkward fucking flirting | Leon Kennedy being a cunty bastard | Ethan Winters' name dropped/lore dropped | PTSD/Trauma |
A/N: I'm sorry for the late update: my sister found a new boyfriend, and it's tradition around here to take the partner out on a drink to see if "they're a real one" or whatever. And we drank. Oh, Lord, did we. So not only am I poor now, but I've also spent the last two days in a delirium haze/hangover.
Word count: 4.4K
Sleep wasn’t coming. When the clock showed an hour to midnight, Ghost wasn’t sure it’d come at all. By then, Ghost tried every trick in the book—lemon balm tea, white noise, a proper shower; one so long her skin prickled from being scrubbed too raw, and the bathroom mirror was fogged by the time she stepped out. As a last resort, she tried putting on a sitcom as background noise. No position felt right. Either her leg cramped or her neck hurt. The sheets didn’t feel right. The room was either too cold or too warm.
Nothing helped. The events of the last 48 hours flooded in fast and heavy. Her mind flashed from face to face, word to word, and thought to thought. It was a gnarly fucking mix: Grace, Charlie, Chris, Emily, Leon, Ethan, all bleeding together with background noise. She didn’t get thrown off the rails often; never, if she was honest.
When the clock showed 11:30, she grunted and swung her feet off the bed, pulling on her running shorts, a sports bra, and a thermo t-shirt. First on the order was a cigarette—only if that wouldn’t loosen her up would she go for a few rounds at the track.
She chatted with the night shift before stepping outside the base. The night was dark and chilly, heavy with the scent of pollen and humid air. She lit a cigarette, and after the first drag, she knew it wouldn’t do anything. It tasted wrong. Her throat was too dry, and she could taste sourness in her mouth. Without thinking about it, she had two more drags before putting out on the ashtray, muttering “Useless fuck” as she passed by.
The walk to the track was short. A few sodium lights lit it. On the other side of the fence was a short runway with three Black Hawks standing in a neat row—based on the flashlight and reflective vests, the mechs had just been in the middle of a check-up. She waved at them as she warmed up. Picking out a playlist for the occasion also gave her trouble. Eventually, she settled on some flavorless EDM playlist.
The first lap was a sprint—something she could pour the rage and restlessness into.
It started with her mind wandering off to Emily and her fragile frame in Ghost’s arms. Ghost hated everything about the memory—the knot in her stomach, the feeling of helplessness, the quiet, pressing ‘oh God, please don’t let her die’ prayer she gritted as they extracted her outside Rhodes Hills.
Ghost hated how vulnerable she was to Ethan's memories seeping in uninvited. Chris tried—multiple times—to get her to therapy. He even informed her of the BSAA-covered package—continual support throughout traumatic and personal events. PTSD. The whole shebang. Ghost laughed in his face. What would she need fucking therapy for, right? …Right?
The image of Leon Kennedy on that fucking med bay cot had her blood boiling.
Then, without preamble, K’s grin when he asked whether she was just a nun or whether she was asexual. Not that there’d be anything wrong with that. Ghost was positive that asexuality had its perks, but she was a woman with a libido. She found other people attractive and wanted to engage in physical acts. Fuck, there were days when she was all hot and bothered just from how Jill swung her hips when she walked down the hall—or when she oversaw combat training, namely sparring between Charlie and Ramirez.
Her line of work was, clearly, the problem here.
She pushed through four more laps until she was breathless—palms planted above her knees, the cold midnight air burning in her lungs. Sweat ran down her back, and her calves spasmed from nearly 40 hours of continuous usage. She should’ve been asleep by now. Every normal person would be.
The memory came uninvited—again. Ghost recalled the evening perfectly. Coldplay in her headphones, a late summer evening when the sun wasn’t shining anymore, but it was still warm enough for a tank top only. The base was lively—outdoor drills, the track fully occupied.
He was somewhere behind her—his footsteps were heavier than hers, his breathing so loud she heard it through the music. He stopped beside her and dropped on his ass, fighting for each inhale. He pointed at her, one of the corners of his mouth raising, before he lay down. “You’re a fucking tyrant, teach.”
“And you’re being a drama queen, Winters,” Ghost chuckled, squatting and squirting water right at his face. “You barely got four laps in. I managed six. Your cardio is fucked.”
“But—” Ethan scoffed humorlessly. Before he managed to get a sentence out, Ghost raised a finger at him.
“Nu-uh. If you’re planning to pull out the happy home and happy husband card, shove it.”
“So, what do you want me to do?” He closed his eyes, and his breathing finally evened. “Fifty squats? Get you a pack while covering it as a 2-mile hike off-base? Just don’t make me fill in any more of those reports. Please.”
“I was thinking about a popsicle and a movie night. Thought you’ve had about enough this week—the bootcamp takes its toll. Especially when you’re a civvie.” Ghost sat beside him, breathing in the sweet summer air. “But have it your way.”
“No, no, no. Stop. Scratch it—didn’t say anything. That sounds heavenly.”
She scoffed and pulled back on her legs, offering Ethan a helping hand. “Thought so. Come on, Pog Champ. We’re watching some rom-com tonight. Might even invite Canine and Em if they’re up for it.”
She stood on the track, frozen, letting the memory play out before her eyes. They walked toward the door, laughing at some stupid joke coming from Connelly. Later that night, Ethan called Mia, dragging Ghost along to “greet the wife.” After the couple got into the territory of sweet nothings and marital sex talk, Ghost decided to turn her attention toward Ethan’s report, briefing Chris on Ethan’s improvements.
Winters was, frankly, good to go. His results were consistent, and the mold gave him superficial abilities the military could dream of. Ethan was a human unit, through and through.
Basic military training became the last hoop before Romania—one of the BSAA’s main conditions for full witness program and shadow company support. Now, Winters knew how to operate a multitude of gun types, put them together, and take them apart with military precision—and his physique wasn’t bad, either. Ghost just dragged him for the fun of it.
Looking back at it, she couldn’t shake the feeling of letting them both down—Ethan and Mia. Compared to that, the constant Ethan flashback TV was a fair punishment. Enough to keep her in a perpetual state of self-hatred. At least she was paying her debt.
… but she should’ve done more. She didn’t know what she could have done differently. Even years after, there was no telling whether anything would change the outcome. But there must’ve been something. There had to be.
And Ghost failed.
Ghost walked back into her quarters just after 1 am. She kicked the door shut and threw her phone on the bed. Without stopping, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the water—ice cold to chase the thoughts away. She stripped naked and forced herself to stay in until her teeth rattled. Both her pulse and breathing evened out after a while. Then, her muscles started to relax. Her brain emptied… mostly.
With the guilt gone, only one thought remained.
She needed a pity orgasm—force herself to cum even though it’d feel wrong. Why? She didn’t really know why. Probably because K’s macho talk cut too fucking deep—so deep it bypassed her usual ‘I’m an active black-op, and I don’t have the comfort or the time to either have sex or to masturbate’ mumbo jumbo.
“Fuck you, K. Fuck you, Kennedy. Fuck you, Chris.” She muttered while stomping back to the bed, one palm turning on the anonymous mode on her phone’s internet browser and the other digging out the vibrator she bought ages ago—the one that now lived in the depths of her bedside table and saw the light of day maybe once a month.
She lay back, eyes skimming through the usual. Rough, vanilla, soft BDSM, oiled up women, erect cocks, faces distorted in faked ecstasy, then a lesbian-turned-throuple amateur piece that caught her eye for thirty whole seconds. But the moment the guy opened his mouth? Ghost grunted and flung the phone beside her.
Good. Great. Fucking amazing. So it was this type of a pity orgasm.
She jumped to the highest setting right off the bat, feeling scorching heat passing from her toes all the way to her head. If she let the vibrator work for a few more seconds, she would have come. It would feel like shit, but she could check it off the list. Instead, she thumbed the power button at the last moment, the anticipation dissipating within seconds.
For a moment, she lay there, writhing, the killed vibrator pressed to her thigh. She spent the next ten minutes turning it on and off. After the last kill, her hips jerked once as her clit chased the vibration. Her thighs were trembling, heels dug into the mattress to raise her hips, inner muscles fluttering around nothing. The sheets were already damp under her from her sweat and sleek, and she hated it.
It was too much. Not enough. Too good but so goddamn wrong she could scream.
Both her brain and her body were already protesting—both wanted the release. Now. So, she held her breath in, buckled her hips, and thumbed through the settings with her eyes closed. She let each grade on for a moment, hips raising faster, blood rushing in her veins. It felt so good that she had to hold onto the head of her bed. Milliseconds from the edge, she finally gave in—head slamming against the pillow, teeth sinking into her lip hard enough to taste copper. She frantically whispered, “Just there, fuck, yeah, like that,” as if there was anyone to listen.
Something non-specific flashed behind her eyes, unwanted and uninvited.
Leon Kennedy, splayed on that cot with a lop-sided grin, asking her whether she ‘wants to strip him naked’ or ‘smother him with her thighs’. Then said, ‘I’d take both’ with the most obscene tone she’d heard on a man in years.
That pushed her over.
Leon fucking Kennedy, his combat t-shirt that left nothing to the imagination, and the bare strip of skin on his hip, was enough to make her whine while the orgasm rolled over. She pressed the vibrator closer to her clit, forcing herself to ride it out—nails digging into the metal railing.
The afterwaves left her gasping and whining at no one in particular. She finally turned the vibrator off and flung it beside her. The room stayed quiet except for her ragged breathing as her brain floated on both exhaustion and euphoria.
As soon as her clit cooled off and her brain decided to be rational, the shame rolled in—her stomach twisted once, then twice, and her eyes widened at the ceiling. Leon’s face floated in her thoughts. She pressed the heel of her palm to her eye socket and muttered, “Jesus fucking Christ,” to no one.
A week has passed since that night. A week filled with nothing of interest—quarantine, people pampering all assets dressed up in masks, and hospital suits (Ghost just raised an eyebrow upon the charade). The team ran the post-op intel gathering—wringing as much as possible from the cleanup crew's intel and asset interviews.
Now, it was time to play the babysitter.
Leon Kennedy was officially assigned as Ghost’s primary directive. It didn’t mean much, but it changed her daily schedule. Slots that’d been previously taken by admin work and the Saudi intel prep turned into rolling Kennedy around in a ‘pussy chariot’, as he charmingly called his pushcart.
The first few days were okay. Kennedy was high off his tits most of the time, yapping about nonsense and disjointed topics for hours on end, with an IV pumping morphine into his system somewhere close by at all times. Yet, as the drug dosage lowered, he started to have moments of clarity. During those times, he was silent or too serious for Ghost’s liking.
They hit the presumed rock bottom on day six.
There was a downpour outside, so she couldn’t take him on their usual ring around the track to let him yap his heart away—not that he was in the mood for talking, anyway. Ghost leaned her back into the wall, digging out her pack. He pointed at it. “Got one?”
She offered it without looking at him—but fuck, didn’t he look awful? He was pale with dark bags under his eyes. His lips were dry, his eyes without a spark. His palms trembled. This man had nothing to do with the Leon Kennedy she met before.
“I’ve been thinking,” he muttered after lighting the cigarette up with shaky fingers.
“Mhm?”
“I owe you an apology.”
Ghost turned her head at him, eyes searching for the reason. “What for exactly?”
“Making me say it, huh?”
“Well, I don’t know that the hell you’re talking about, Kennedy.” Ghost scoffed humourlessly, shrugging her shoulders. “It would make it fucking easier to know what I’m forgiving for.”
“All the shit I’ve talked about at the med bay.” He glanced at her, then turned back at the downpour in front of them. “Wasn’t my proudest moment.”
Ghost stared at him, lips parted, smoke curling around her face without any volition. Were she bolder, she could’ve apologized too. ‘Sorry for orgasming to the memory of you all over that cot, buckaroo—now we’re even. Wasn’t intentional. Good spank bank material, though.’ She let the scenario run through her head, imagined saying the words. Yeah… no. If she learned anything about Kennedy, this would’ve only fueled him further. “Nothing to be sorry for. You think you rattled me or something?”
“Your expression is the one thing I remember very clearly,” Leon grunted. “You looked like I caught you with your pants down. Wasn’t my intention.”
“Kennedy, I’ve heard worse and seen worse. Lobo got shot once—bad bleed, delirious as fuck. Tried to convince everyone he could suck his own dick. Chris and K practically had to hog-tie him.” She snorted smoke. “Your little floor show didn’t even rate.”
“Somehow, I doubt Lobo tried to drag you along. I did. And it was unprofessional.”
Ghost nodded, exhaling the smoke toward the rain. Unprofessional, he said. If only he fucking knew. “It was forward, I’ll give you that. You know how to make a girl blush.” She nodded toward the ring. “Probably how you scored her, am I right?”
Kennedy gave her an unamused glance, raising his eyebrows. Then he sighed through his nose—clear ‘why the fuck not’— before answering. “Started when I was too young to know better. First day on the job and boom. There she was. I was… fuck, she blew me away.”
“Sounds nice.” Ghost muttered, her tone softening.
Leon sighed, clearing his throat. “If you think so, I’ll take it.”
“Didn’t go well?”
“If only,” he smiled, showing dimples she didn’t know existed. “Downhill from there. Sex was mind-blowing, but the rest was considerably lacking. We had good chemistry. But the toxicity…”
Ghost let the words hang for a moment before giving a small, vulnerable smile too. “Been there.”
“Do tell, commander.” She glanced at him. “I showed you mine, now you show yours. It’s only fair.”
“Fine. Have it your way.” At first, Leon thought she might man-handle him back into the bay, and instead, she started talking. “Had an on-and-off fling with a guy at work. Amateur shit, I know. Didn’t fare so well—started as… I don’t even know what the fuck it was at that time. Turned into something worse than we first anticipated. We spent five years fucking around pretending nobody knew.” Ghost scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Everybody around knew.”
Leon squirmed in his ‘pussy chariot’, comfortably spreading out his elbows on the handles. “Someone I know?”
“Don’t think so,” Ghost smiled convincingly enough.
“How did it end?”
“Bad.”
“Bad how?” Leon probed gently. He leaned his head on his shoulder, eyes on her.
“He fell in love. I… did not. We made love once.” Just the memories sent shivers down her spine—enough to bounce off the wall and shake them off. “I cut ties the day after. He still hates me, I think.”
“Bullshit.” He finally finished the cig—most of it burned on its own volition. “If you were half the woman you’re now, he still writes about in his diary. Probably cries when he thinks nobody’s watching. I would.”
“... the fuck are you talking about, Kennedy?”
“You remind me of her, you know?” Leon bit the inside of his cheek, snickering at his own perverse sense of self-deprivation. “Horrifyingly capable. Probably know how to knock off a guy under three seconds in eight different ways. Sarcastic to a fault.” He let it hang in the air before glancing at her. “...easy on the eyes, too.”
Ghost waited for the scoff. For the ‘I’m joking, relax.’ But it didn’t come. The silence stretched on, the two staring at each other without a word. When it was clear that the deflection wasn’t coming, Ghost walked behind the wheelchair and caught the handlers. “You’re delirious, Kennedy. Withdrawal’s kicking in, isn’t it?”
“If you wanna chug it to that, sure.” He shrugged, sighing. “You really are horrible at flirting. Anyone ever told you that?”
Ghost let out a singular, humourless bark. “And what would I need flirting for?”
“For the sake of the conversation—to keep things moving.” He turned his head toward her as they rolled inside the med bay wing. “You have black ops training. Don’t tell me they didn’t teach you that flirting and arousal are the easiest way to lower the target’s guard?”
“You’re pushing my patience, Kennedy.” Ghost grit through her teeth as heat crept up her neck. It didn’t have the same bite as before, however. This one was softer, almost gentle. “Don’t forget I can still roll you into the rain and let you soak until I’m satisfied.”
Something flashed behind Kennedy’s eyes—he had to bite down so he wouldn’t mouth back. He simply nodded, turning his head forward. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”
How he did it was a mystery. By then, Ghost was positive that Kennedy fished in the dark and threw shit at the wall until it stuck, and yet, somehow… the outcome remained the same. It still ended up with Ghost twisting his words in her head or recalling his smug grins.
That motherfucker was so sly it made her blood boil and so smooth it was pulling her in—despite her best efforts.
Her little daydream was over. Charlie leaned over the desk, snapping his fingers in front of her face. “Earth to Ghost. You with us?”
“Yeah. Sorry. The Saudi intel stuck, can’t shake it off.” Her fork clinked on the tupperware as she looked around. It was nearing 8 pm, and most of the unit gathered at the cafeteria—half the HWS squad that wasn’t doing drills, Ramirez, Connelly, and she were sitting around a table. Emily was gone—family reasons. Valentine and Redfield were in a meeting regarding a hit in Jubbah. “What’s up?”
“Just asking how you're holding up? You seem… unwell.”
Ghost snorted. “Fuck you too.”
“Geez. God forbid a guy asks a woman how she’s doing.”
“Cut her some slack, K. You know Redfield,” Ramirez leaned in—equally as exhausted as Ghost was. “He keeps loading us with side-tracking. Intel this, intel that, medical records this, and suddenly, he wants Claire’s medical records from ‘98 for comparison. It’s fucking insane.”
“Amen.” Ghost muttered.
K looked at them both. “You knew what you signed up for.”
“How are the girls holding up?” Ghost wondered with a soft smile.
“Emily’s great. Woke up from the induced sleep yesterday, her vision’s not impaired anymore, and now, she’s figuring out I’m the nice uncle who’s bringing her Kinder.”
“Have you seen yourself?” K huffed. “Looking like that, I’d let you bring me Kinder any time you wanted, Ramirez.”
“Fuck off, K.” Ramirez snorted, choking on his coffee. “And Grace’s doing great. She’s quiet. The therapist wants to work on her anxiety issues. You should visit.”
“I might.” Ghost nodded. “Kennedy’s growing restless. They plan to wean him off the morphine entirely on Friday. Yay. Can’t wait. But other than being annoying, he’s… healing well.”
“Forgot to mention he has your panties in a twist, commander,” K added. That caught half the table’s attention. “We get it—nothing wrong with that. He’s pretty and smooth with the ladies. Shame he had to run into our resident ice-queen. Might’ve been proper juicy drama otherwise.”
Ghost scoffed, lowering her cutlery. “What’s that about?”
“Saw you two birds ditty earlier today.” He raised an eyebrow. “All batting eyelashes, small smiles. Wasn’t like you, XO.”
“You serious?” Connelly leaned in along with Lobo, both with their mouths open.
“You mean how he told me about his wife?” Ghost answered, voice level. “Yeah. Real romantic shit.” … Romantic enough that she still felt Kennedy’s eyes on her three hours later, nosy fuck. She didn’t say anything. Just smiled.
After hearing the words ‘wife’ and ‘Kennedy’ in the same sentence, K immediately dropped any shit he had lined up—stirring the conversation toward Lobo and his latest discovery. Her name was Clara; she was considerably younger and lived in New York. She sighed, pushing the tray aside. K glanced at her. Then again. He followed it with an exhausted exhale and planted his elbows on the table. “Alright, spill. What’s eating you up? You know we’re just spitting shit, Ghost.”
“You know what?” she muttered, voice edging toward something none of them could’ve expected—she decided to bite. She hit the desk with both her palms loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “Fine, Charles. Sure. If I’m so horrible at flirting, fucking prove it.”
The table went silent. K blinked, his grin faltering for a second—she got him. Caught him off guard. Ramirez coughed into his fist. Connelly’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline, and Lobo just leaned back like he was settling in for a live show. Only then was K’s shit-eating grin back. “Oh, fuck. boys—she talks.”
“Yeah. She fucking talks.”
“Are you asking me to coach you? Right here? In front of the unit?” K asked.
“Let’s not call it coaching, hm?” Ghost leaned forward, forearms crossed on the table, eyes locked onto his—she spotted the grin of a cat that pissed into the flower pot and got away with it. “Just… a test. Pull out the big guns. See if I can keep up—or are you all talk?”
A slow, dirty, and delighted smile spread across K’s face. He cracked his knuckles theatrically. “Before we get into it, can I maneuver you around? Give you tips?”
“If I won’t have to strip naked or look like a porn thumbnail by the end of it… Sure.”
“Alright, commander. Game on.” His voice dropped a register, just enough to make it feel private. “First lesson: eye contact. I’m right here—don’t break it. Makes me feel seen.”
She held his gaze with amusement crinkling in her eyes. She could make eye contact well—she was the champion of resident staring competition four times in a row. That part was easy.
“Good, good.” He murmured. “Now, lean in. Not too much, just enough to make me feel like the rest of the room disappeared. C’mhere.” He wriggled a finger, and she shifted forward. K mirrored, close enough that she caught the faint scent of sweat and afterwash.
“This good?” She knew her cleavage was showing—the angle, her arms pushed together… it was all there. His eyes dropped to her breasts for a second, very respectfully, before he nodded.
“Lower that voice a bit. Like you’re telling me a secret you don’t want anyone else to hear.” His tone dipped again, even lower than before. “Something a little cocky but not too obvious, like—You know, XO, I’ve been thinking. All that talk, but what I really want is a little hands-on demonstration. Right here or on the stalls in five… your call, girl.”
Ghost felt the corner of her mouth twitch. This might’ve worked—if this were anyone else other than K, who flirted with half the base and made it abundantly clear he was single. “... that’s your big gun? You smack better shit when I wake you in the middle of the night.”
“Going easy on you, Ghost. Would hate it if you fell in love with me. All warm-up. Now your turn. Hit me with something. Anything. Make it count.”
She swallowed and licked her lips, her eyes darting to his lips. “Are you always so cocky when you’re trying to get laid, or is it just for me?”
The table went dead quiet. K’s eyes widened a fraction, but then he laughed. “There she is.” He leaned in closer, voice velvet-smooth. “See? That right there? That’s the spark. You’re rough, direct, and fuck, love that you’re a little mean… makes a guy wonder what else you’re hiding.”
Her pulse jumped, heat creeping up her throat. Not because of K, exactly—Leon’s face flashed inside her head again. It was his mouth saying that shit. Not saying, but drawling and letting her stew in it, with the same smug confidence and the same casual invasion of space. She chuckled, batting her lashes. She opened her mouth to fire back at K and… the radio on her vest cracked. Half of the table groaned. K offered her a palm she squeezed, mouthing ‘fair competition.’ The spell was gone.
“Ghost, this is Alpha. Report to command. Now.”
She thumbed the mic as she got up. She bent for the tray, but K pulled it toward himself, waving her off. “Copy, Alpha. On my way. Five mikes.”
“Hey. Was fun.” Ghost muttered inconspicuously. “How about you help me back in the game? Helps me back on my feet and lets you have something you never thought you would—I’ll be flirting with you. Voluntarily. Like I mean it.”
K huffed a laugh. “You realize I’m not as tragic with women as I pretend, right?”
“Still.” Ghost shrugged. “You in or our?”
“You’re on, XO. Don’t let me down.”
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