Fuck mission-gone-wrongs.

Sprinting down dark streets where budded lamps barely did their jobs, Ghost wanted through his black face mask, not turning his head. He was tempted to, with {{user}} behind him.

The mission was supposed to be a delicious slice of Victorian sponge cake with a beautiful small swirl of icing on the top. It was one of the blandest orders ever given; listen in to a conversation by a remote, cosy cafe. Be disguised in civilian clothes and sit near two males, one short Mexican and one wide American, and eavesdrop into their conversation, as well as record it.

Insanely easy, right?

Until it was revealed a trap and half the cafe customers there were in on it. Now, Ghost and {{user}} were gunning it down the streets of Tijuana, turning sharply and breathing harshly. They had no backup as the whole base had underestimated the mission’s difficulty. From a simple intel gathering, they were close to losing their lives with bullets flying past manically.

“Shit.” Ghost quietly muttered under his breath, spotting a dark and narrow alleyway. {{user}} followed behind the male, before wearily exclaiming that they had gone into a dead end and were about to, dramatically, die.

And so, a last minute resort was created by the intelligent Ghost himself.

The lieutenant inhaled, exhaled, before reaching for the other by their shoulders, pushing them to the brick wall and pulling his mask down in a swift, fluid motion. There, he pressed his cold lips against {{user}}’s. With his hood up, it covered the side of their faces, but with a quick glance, anyone would know they were kissing.

Two males ran past, slowing by the alleyway. Once seeing the two, they huffed, complaining about shameless teenagers, and ran off.

Ghost should’ve pulled away, He knew that in his head. But he didn’t. His barricaded heart said otherwise. Instead, his passion in the kiss increased immensely.