Chapter Text
You arch your back, moaning prettily as the man moves inside you. You’ve forgotten his name again, even though he is one of your regulars and even though he pays you good tips but he’s too unremarkable for you to remember him.
He pants, burying his sweaty face into your shoulder as he ruts inside you. He moves too quickly, too abruptly, and he doesn’t hit the right angle. He never does. That he isn’t well endowed doesn’t help his case. It doesn’t feel good even though he is convinced that it does. When you notice him becoming close, his rutting is faster, more sloppy, you purposely clench around him a little bit more. You arch your back a little more, moan a little more desperately and tell him pretty little lies about “being so close, gonna cum, cum for you” even though you’re not even aroused.
It is all part of the job though and he pays well, so you put on a show for him. A performance, a sweet mask so that he is satisfied and happy and you get a quick buck.
His hips still, burying himself to the hilt inside of your walls, spilling his seed into the condom you always have to remind him to wear. “Miguel’s policy”, you always say, “Doesn’t want his workers to go raw with costumers.”
It isn’t Miguel’s policy. You just don’t like the idea of having your clients’ semen inside you. Too big of a risk, because of both STDs and pregnancy. And it frankly makes you uncomfortable. It feels disgusting. And you are so used to performing, to acting, that no one questions what you say because it sounds believable. And, of course, because doubting your words, if they were true, would mean doubting Miguel and no one doubts Miguel. Not when he’s quicker to put a bullet in someone’s head than your clients are to cum. Which is unusually quick since most of them are men. Desperate and pathetic men. Your thoughts trail off to Melanie. Sometimes you are jealous that she only accepts women as costumers. You’re sure she has a better time at work than you do.
You almost don’t notice your client, Frank you finally recall his name, pulling out and getting up, readying himself to leave. He fidgets nervously with his hands, and you sense that he wants to ask you out on a date. Again. You’ve lost count of how many times he has done so in the past. So you smile prettily, interrupt him with a “Have a good night, Frank” and walk him to the door, kindly but firmly making him leave.
Once he’s gone you drop your doll-like smile and sigh. For a moment you consider sitting back down on the bed to rest for a moment, but your bed smells like Frank and it’s full of sweat and other liquids you’d rather not think about. So, you decide against it and settle to sit on the floor. You like the floor. It’s grounding.
If you were in a better mood, you’d giggle at your own joke, but you aren’t, so you don’t.
For a while you sit there, staring at the wall, lost in thought. What you’re thinking about you aren’t exactly sure, you’re too tired to keep track of your thoughts. No, not tired. Exhausted. You are completely and utterly exhausted because life has been a bitch to you lately.
It always is. But in the past few weeks it’s been worse.
Between having to deal with clients like and worse than Frank and Miguel refusing to hand over your money you’ve earned, your mother’s health has been in a steady downwards spiral and just a few days you’ve argued with Melanie again. You don’t remember the exact reason why; you were probably being unnecessarily bitchy because you were sleep deprived and stressed. You make a mental note of inviting her to go to a café to make it up to her.
She’s your only friend after all and you don’t want to lose her because you’re too busy struggling.
For a moment longer you allow yourself to wallow in your own misery before you decide enough is enough and get yourself cleaned up. Thankfully Frank was your last costumer tonight, so you don’t have to pretend to be the sexy whore anymore. It always amazes you how you can change your own personality so easily.
After a quick shower in the bedroom adjacent bathroom, you get thanks to being one of Miguel’s favourites, you put on your more comfortable clothes. None of that lacy bullshit, no, a comfortable college hoodie and a pair of jeans is all you want to wear right now. Well, you’d prefer your pyjamas, but you can’t have everything. For a moment you glance at your makeup, dolling up is fun after all, but then only reach for your lipstick, as you always do. It’s your favourite part of your makeup and you wear it not just for your job like the rest of it. No, the bloodred lipstick is a constant companion in your life, both your work and your private life.
Once you’re done getting comfortable and cleaning up your room, you take one last look at it to make sure everything is in order and then walk out.
You take the elevator for employees, after all costumers aren’t meant to see the workers in normal, boring attire and out of their element, and head out of the back entrance where Melanie is already waiting for you.
You offer her a small smile, still a little tense because of your argument a few days ago, you haven’t talked with her since after all. All these worries are unnecessary though you notice the moment she wraps her arms around you in a bone-crushing hug.
“Girly, there you are! I thought you’ve forgotten me, I’ve been waiting for half an hour!”, she exclaims, before pulling back a little, her arms still around you. She musters your face and frowns. “You look like shit, everything alright?”
You bite the inside of your cheek and shrug. You knew that she knew you weren’t alright, but you didn’t exactly want to talk about it.
“Just tired”, you instead say, “Long day and exhausting costumers.”
She tilts her head a little. “Frank?”
You nod. “And Joseph.”
You grimace when you mention his name. You don’t like him, even less than you like Frank. While Frank is pathetic, Joseph is outright violent. Of course never so much that you’re left with permanent injuries, Miguel would have his head if he did, but you’d be lying if you didn’t get afraid of him sometimes.
Melanie sighs and pulls you into a hug again. You accept it thankfully, resting your head against her shoulder.
“Y’know, you don’t have to do it like this”, she murmurs, placing an affectionate kiss on your hair, “You can always tell Miguel that a costumer’s being an ass. You can ask for a different job entirely.”
You stay silent for a while. You don’t want to have this conversation again. She’s right, of course, but you don’t want to change your job. And you don’t want to go to Miguel either. She might have a rather good relationship with him, but you don’t. Not when he’s always acting so condescending and creepy towards you. You remember the one time he called you to his office to hand you your pay. Instead he pinned you to his desk and grinded against you until he came in his pants. You always request your pay to be directly transferred to your bank account since then.
“You know I can’t do that.”
That’s all you say. She already knows why. Not only is being one of Miguel’s whores at Last Night’s Pleasure one of the safer jobs, but it also pays relatively well. And it doesn’t weigh psychologically on you. That’s what you tell yourself at least, you can separate your mind from body when your clients fuck you. Put on a mask and get it over with. You’re unsure if you could work in a different way for Miguel, if he let you anyways. Not after hearing what Melanie’s girlfriend has to do on a regular basis. You’re not one for blood and gore.
“There have been new people around the past few days.”, you mumble after a while, not so subtly changing the topic, “They look strange. They don’t buy drinks, and they don’t engage with the workers.”
Melanie nods and wraps an arm around your shoulder as she starts to walk. You let yourself be pulled with her.
“They are strange, right? But also hot! I’m sure you’d enjoy it if they booked you, I mean have you seen how beefy they are? Especially the one with the Mohawk! Looks like a puppy ready to pounce!”
You grimace a little at her choice of words.
“A man that’s at least 6’2 and twice my size doesn’t seem like a puppy to me, Mel. Besides, he and his companions always look so… upset. Mad. I don’t know. They don’t look like they enjoy being here.”
Melanie shrugs.
“Well, maybe they don’t have any money to pay for your services and are depressed because of it”, she teases. You roll your eyes. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter anyways, I’m sure they’ll come around. What’s more important is that my sweetheart finally got her hands on some weed again. Wanna join us tonight for a bit of fun? Stacy and Ella are coming too, and you look like you really need a night of relaxation with the girlies.”
You think for a moment. You’re not exactly keen on spending time with people, your bed and sleep are calling for you at the moment more than they ever have. But getting high does sound good and if you get the weed from Mel and her girlfriend you don’t have to pay for it.
So, you nod.
“Yeah, why not?”
The night you spend with Melanie, her girlfriend and your coworkers is nice. It’s a distraction at least, helping you forget about your troubles and getting high helps even more.
That all comes crashing down though when you return home, your apartment in the complex right next to Last Night’s Pleasure.
In the alley between your apartment complex and Last Night lays a man. A huge, stupidly muscular man with a skull mask. That by itself is bad. Unconscious people in dark alleyways have ‘Miguel’ written all over them.
Even worse is the blood pooling beneath him. The look of it makes you sick. For a moment you think you might throw up.
Then, you panic. There’s a not so small possibility that this man was attacked by one of Miguel’s men, if the knife in his stomach is anything to go by. You fool yourself into thinking you remember that you’ve seen your boss’s men use these kinds of knives before.
You swallow, suddenly your mouth is too dry.
Fuck you for being such a kind person when you’re high, you curse yourself as you decide to drag the man into your apartment. You can’t let him bleed out like this. You’re a whore and you sell your love for money but you’re not heartless.
Ghost groans when he wakes up. His entire stomach throbs in pain and he grimaces when he remembers what happens.
He was sloppy. Let himself get caught by the cartel’s men when he wanted to get a closer look at the brothel. For a moment his thoughts drift to Price and Laswell, they said it was an easy mission after all. No one told him to expect at least a dozen armed guards wandering the halls of the brothel, guarding that basement.
He was still sloppy, and he should’ve expected the guards even when no one told him about them. He should’ve anticipated the possibility. He’s been distracted lately. He’s unsure of why.
He is Ghost, after all. He is never distracted.
And yet he is proven wrong again when you enter the living room he’s in. He didn’t notice the footsteps and he didn’t notice that he was in an unfamiliar location. He’s not sloppy, he’s foolish. Should’ve inspected his surroundings the moment he woke up.
You open your mouth to say something, but Ghost moves quicker, acting on pure instinct. The stab wound stings, and he notes the bandages on them but then returns his attention to you. You who he has pinned against the wall, you with your eyes wide in terror and you who has dropped what you were carrying. A glass of water, now on the ground, in pieces and a puddle of water wetting his shoes.
He looks down at you and he’s sure you would be screaming if his hand wasn’t covering your mouth. You don’t seem like a threat though. You don’t seem like one of the cartel’s people. If you were a danger to him, you’d try to fight back, he’s sure. Instead, you’re just frozen in his grip. Staring up at him with those wide, terrified eyes.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
He lets go off you and takes a step back, mustering you. You also take a step back, bringing your arms around yourself in a protective hug. He can see you swallowing. Then you point at his stomach.
“You’re hurt.”, your voice is shaking. He, no doubt, scared the ever-living shit out of you. “I tried to fix it up.”
He just stares at you. You shift around, visibly uncomfortable.
“I think you should go to the hospital.”
“No.”
His voice, in contrast to yours, is rough and sharp. He has no time for a hospital visit, not to mention how it would complicate the mission. It's top secret, after all. Ghost scoffs. He needs to get back to Price, report what happened. Something is wrong with that brothel. Or else they wouldn’t have a dozen armed guards wandering around.
“No police. No ambulance. I was never here.”
His tone doesn’t leave any room for you to argue. You nod weakly.
“Is there anything I can do to h-“, you start, wanting to ask for help. He interrupts you.
“Where is the door?”
You, taken aback, only stare at him.
“Where is the door?”, he repeats, his voice firmer. You hesitate but point to the door that leads out of your apartment.
He gives you an affirmative grunt in response.
Awkward silence stretches out between him and you. You open your mouth again, but Ghost is already turning around and heads out of your apartment, slamming the door shut behind him louder than he needs to.
“Fucking hell.”, he says again, shaking his head as he walks towards his motorcycle which thankfully was still parked next to the brothel.
Ghost never fails his missions. But this one? He really fucked up. Soap is going to have a field day when he finds out about it.