Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Two around the corner, Lt.,” Soap says into comms, “I’ll leave one for you.”

Whited-out silhouettes come into focus in the lens of his thermal scope. Breathe in, boom. One goes down and the other scrambles for his gun. As Soap reloads, Ghost slinks across the wall. He sneaks up while the enemy’s back is turned, quickly disarming and stabbing him.

“Beautiful, sir,” Soap breathes out. He flips his hybrid sight to holographic and meanders down a floor of the decrepit brick building to meet Ghost. They’ve been sent on this mission alone, Price feeling confident that the two of them could scrap together enough wits between them to locate some intel. Soap had cleared a few buildings already, with protection guaranteed by Ghost lurking in the shadows, but has yet to uncover anything of substance. Every drawer reveals sand and more sand; Soap can feel himself growing antsy. Price assured him their tip on this is solid, though, and he trusts his captain.

He finds Ghost leaning against a wall, twirling a knife between his fingers, at the bottom of the stairs.

“Starting to think this folder might have gotten lost in the rubble,” Soap grumbles.

“Quit your whining, Sergeant,” Ghost teases, pushing off the wall. He signals for Soap to follow him, as if it wasn’t already wired into Soap’s brain to trail behind the lieutenant like his goddamn shadow. “We’ve still got plenty of ground to cover.”

A few buildings, a lot of dead bodies, and much more bitching from Soap later, they locate the intel.

“About fucking time,” Soap mutters to himself before switching on his comms, “Lt. Found the intel, I’m on the third floor, first door to the right.”

“Good job, Soap. On my way,” Ghost’s voice responds.

Soap begins to sift through the pile of papers, wondering which ones are trash. All of it is written in Russian, and although the job calls for him to know a bit of the language, he doesn’t understand enough to discern what the documents mean.

“Hey, Ghost,” Soap says into his mic. He bites back a preemptive giggle.

Ghost must be able to hear the smile in his voice. “What now, Johnny?”

“What do you call a paper airplane that can’t fly?”

Soap lets the silence build for a few seconds.

“Stationary.”

There’s loud crackling in his ear as Ghost exhales. “That was just painful. You’re almost as– fuck!”

Soap feels his stomach drop all three stories down. The papers fall out of his hands, temporarily forgotten. He grabs his rifle and vaults over the desk, accelerating into a near-sprint. “Ghost! Talk to me.”

“Fucking bastard shot me,” Ghost growls, his voice sounding strangely garbled. There’s shuffling again, then Soap hears shots from a pistol both in his earpiece and out loud about a story down.

He picks up his pace, descending down the stairs (why are there always so many fucking stairs?) as quick as he can. He glances out the windows as he goes, searching for movement in the rubble. He spots the glinting of a scope in the sun out of the corner of his eye as he reaches Ghost. He slides behind the cover of a collapsed roof mere moments before the bullet whizzes by. Soap glances at Ghost as he flips his hybrid scope once more, teeth gritting as he sees way too much blood on the outside of his body.

He peaks around the corner of his cover and– there. His bullet lands true in the head of the asshole who shot his lieutenant. He shoots him again in the chest when his body doesn’t seem to fall limp, just for good measure.

“Down,” Soap spits out.

Now: Ghost.

The man is standing with his back pressed to a support beam, one bloodied hand clutching his face, the other sliding his pistol back into its holster. Soap takes a deep breath and fights against the wave of panic sloshing over him. He pulls his radio to his mouth, requesting the right channel for immediate extraction. He gives them coordinates and information on the situation at hand, trying not to rush through his words. He hurries over to Ghost as he talks, pulling him into a safe corner.

Ghost slides down the wall to sit against the floor and Soap follows him down. He pulls his hand away, and steamin’ fucking Jesus, that’s a lot of blood.

The extraction team tells him they can’t come for another half hour at least. Soap swears, his fist colliding with the concrete of the floor. Ghost needs medical attention, like, yesterday. He mulls over his options and groans internally as he realizes what he’ll need to do.

“Ghost,” Soap starts with caution, finding his inner calm after a moment. He’s not as good as Ghost is with this kind of stuff. “You’re gonna have to take the mask off. I need to treat this.”

Soap expects grumbling, maybe a joke about his insistence on seeing Ghost’s face, but there’s only a deep breath and a steeled acceptance in the set of his brow before Ghost’s mask is up and off. Warmth seeps into his skin as he’s reminded of how stupidly handsome Ghost is. Short blonde hair lays in a sweaty clump against his forehead, his war-hardened features tense and littered with scars, but his hazel eyes hold a softness in them reserved only for Soap. Then his attention zeroes in on the source of all the red.

Soap knows, realistically, the wound isn’t life-ending. But it’s fucking creepy to see a sizeable tear in the space where Ghost’s left face used to be. The blood oozes out of the wound in nauseating bursts, but from what Soap can see– thank god– the bullet had just grazed him. Soap winces in sympathy, turning Ghost’s head to get a better look at the injury.

“Fucking hell,” Ghost murmurs. The movement of his mouth causes more blood to seep out of his cheek and onto Soap’s fingers where they lay on Ghost’s jaw. Ghost’s eyes roll skyward in a showy display of exasperation.

“Shut your big fucking mouth for a second, yeah? I might not be the best medic, but I do know that the blood is supposed to stay inside the body,” Soap says, because he doesn’t know what he would do if Ghost doesn’t make it.

He stops prodding at the wound with his fingers to sit back on his haunches and dig through his pockets for his medkit. He finds a small pack of Isopropyl wipes, then leans forward to kneel between Ghost’s knees. Ghost peers at him under long, blonde eyelashes. His breathing is steady, as always, but there’s something like trepidation in his dark eyes. It occurs to Soap, then, that Ghost might not trust him with his injury like this.

Soap hesitates. “Okay, sir?” He asks, voice hushed, because Ghost is likely already uncomfortable from the lack of his mask and the frustration from getting injured on what was supposed to be an easy mission. Ghost flexes his strong jaw, and Soap catalogs the motion into his brain’s steadily growing folder labeled Simon Riley.

Ghost mumbles, “I’ve had worse than this, Johnny. The bullet barely touched me.” He rolls his sticky face into Soap’s outstretched fingers like a cat nuzzling against the hand that feeds her. The warmth from the contact pulls Soap out of his reverie.

“Alright, then, Lt.,” he says. He tries to get to work, but their tactical vests keep bumping together and Soap can’t really get a good angle on his face.

“Do you mind if this comes off?” Soap asks, tugging on the vest. Ghost shakes his head no and holds his arms straight out, expecting Soap to take it off for him. It’s startling for a moment, this deviation from Ghost’s usual streak of untouchable independence. Soap does it anyways, and his own vest follows suit shortly after. Satisfied with this new arrangement, he picks his medkit back up off the floor.

Soap hums as he disinfects the wound, some old tune his mum used to sing him to sleep with when he was a kid. He hopes it’s more comforting than obtrusive, because, from the way Ghost’s jaw keeps twitching, he can tell his face hurts like a bitch. Soap doesn’t think he sees Ghost blink once. He just stares at him.

“You’re doing good, Simon,” Soap says idly, switching out the cotton and disinfectant for bandages.

Ghost grunts, shuffling against the hard floor. “By the time you’re done, our exfil will have had time to stop for drinks.”

He raises an exploratory hand to touch the marred skin, but Soap swats it away. He captures the hand in his own offhand, lacing his fingers with his lieutenant’s and squeezing in apology. After a moment, Ghost squeezes back.

“Haud yer weesht,” Soap grumbles. He knows he’s meticulous. He can’t help but put care into everything, from following orders right down to cleaning his fingernails. He rips off a piece of tape and unrolls some gauze.

“Does that one mean a round of bourbon on you tonight?” Ghost asks, a sly smile playing at his full lips. His voice is strained from trying to jostle his injury as little as possible, but the familiarity of his deep teasing tone makes Soap’s head cloudy.

“You propositioning me, Ghost?” Soap asks, incredulous laughter bubbling out of his chest. Not that he hasn’t thought about it before, because he has. A lot. Their banter often treads down a vaguely homoerotic path, but that’s over comms. It feels different when he’s sitting so close to Ghost that he can hear him breathe, feel the heat radiate off his body.

“Nah, Johnny. I don’t put out on the first date,” Ghost says, lolling his head back the slightest bit to bump against the wall, the tendons in his neck flexing, and fuck him if he’s still joking at this point. “Or maybe I do. Remains to be seen.”

Soap’s traitorous brain imagines a Simon Riley flushed red from drink, eager for the rough slide of Soap’s hands, the hot wetness of his mouth. C’mon, Johnny, he purrs in Soap’s ear. Soap thinks he might die here.

“Nobody’s getting any action from you with your mouth in shambles like it is, mate,” Soap says after a beat too long, in a desperate attempt to say something that won’t get him written up for insubordination.

“Who says I need my mouth, lad? Got two perfectly good hands right here,” Ghost quips.

Soap chokes, his gaze instantly flickering to Ghost’s gloved fingers tapping against his large thigh. He feels blood rise high on his cheeks and prays the lord give him strength. “Fucking hell, Ghost.”

He resumes dressing the wound, unclenching his fist from where he had the gauze in a near death grip. He tries very hard to think of other things than Ghost begging for his cock. Ghost chuckles, giving Soap’s hand a light squeeze, and they fall back into silence.

Fucking Brits.

When Soap is done, he lingers in Ghost’s space. He knows he should say something, or move back, but he doesn’t. He just stews in the tension, feeling fire engulf all the places where Ghost and him are touching. And Ghost just keeps right on staring at him.

Soap brings a finger up to trace over the fresh bandage. Flakes of Ghost’s dried blood peel off Soap’s skin and attach to the white fabric, and Ghost finally blinks. Once, slowly.

Movement stirs underneath his fingertips, and he realizes with a start that it’s Ghost’s tongue from inside his cheek. It prods at Soap for a moment, and the alien feeling almost makes him pull away before Ghost moves to trace around his wound instead. The stony bastard doesn’t even flinch at what Soap imagines must be searing hot pain. His eyes glazing over as his gaze shifts to the space just above Soap’s shoulder, where the bullet had embedded itself in the wall, is the only indication that he feels anything, and– oh. Ghost moans, a low sound from the depths of his chest.

Soap supposes it makes sense; Ghost knows nothing more intimately than violence– the man’s heartbeat probably mimics the hammering of a nail into a coffin– it’s no wonder he finds solace in it now. Soap feels heat settle in his stomach all the same, his voice catching as a whine in the back of his throat when he says Ghost’s name like a prayer.

His skull mask had been pulled all the way off and tossed aside to let Soap see the damage, before. He takes a moment just to look, to admire the plumpness of his pomegranate-red lips, the long swoop of his nose, the pink blush creeping up into his cheeks. The working of his jaw as he moves his tongue. All tucked away into the corners of his mind, to be drawn in Soap’s journal, later. Soap can’t imagine he’ll want to sketch out tactical maps when he could draw Ghost’s face instead.

He slowly, so slowly– he doesn’t want to spook Ghost now, because even though they’ve advanced well past the amiable teammates mark at this point, he still wants to make sure he’s not misreading anything– moves his thumb to rest on Ghost’s bottom lip. It’s chapped and stained from blood and Soap can feel Ghost’s warm breath exhale onto his thumb as he pushes it deeper into his mouth. Ghost bites him, a playful edge to it, and Soap would laugh if he wasn’t so turned on.

He looks up to Ghost’s eyes for guidance. His pupils are so dilated that his irises almost melt into the surrounding eyeblack. Soap stares in awe at the man before him and presses down on Ghost’s wet tongue, just to see what expression he’ll make. Ghost blinks twice, his left eye twitching, and holy Jesus, Soap needs. Before Soap can even think, he’s wiping his damp thumb off on his pants and he presses his lips to Ghost’s.

The coppery taste of blood fills his mouth and he thinks the bullet must have hit home in him after it scraped by Ghost, because how could this be real?

Ghost’s big hands come up to paw at Soap’s biceps and he pulls him into himself until their chests are as flush together as they can be, both of them sitting on the floor as they are– which is apparently not close enough. Ghost breaks the kiss, a strand of spit lingering between their mouths, and growls. He manhandles Soap into his lap with an ease that makes his pants tighten uncomfortably around his crotch. Soap thinks that they fit together like puzzle pieces, bone of his bones, flesh of his flesh, and he wants to crawl into the crevice where Simon’s heart should be and lay himself to rest. Ghost kisses him once, twice, three times before moving down to mouth at his neck.

“Christ alive, Simon,” Soap pants, rolling his head back to allow more room for Ghost’s attack on his throat, “Couldn’t even wait for me to buy you that drink first.”

“You started it,” Ghost mumbles into his skin. He plants more kisses there, unexpectedly gentle from a man who had murdered someone, multiple someones, in front of Soap not an hour before. But Soap supposes that’s the novelty of it. Tenderness in a place of war, sunlight in the pouring rain. It doesn’t quite belong, but he thinks he’s better off because of it.

“Fucking bastard, you did,” he responds. Ghost sinks his teeth into the meat of his shoulder– claiming what’s already his, what has been his for a long time. “Ghost,” he gasps, his fingers twisting into Ghost’s shirt.

Despite his daze, Soap feels slick blood drool out of Ghost’s mouth as he runs his tongue over the mark. He had stupidly already forgotten the reason they had gotten into this situation in the first place. “Hey,” he murmurs, to get his attention.

Ghost pulls back immediately, looking down at Soap, trying to gauge what went wrong. Soap’s heart skips a beat, because why does Ghost have to be so fucking cute, and isn’t that the wrong word to describe his superior officer. He leans in to press his forehead against Ghost’s, unable to help himself.

Soap tuts in disapproval, running his hand over the bandage. Ghost’s hands come to rest on the handles of his hips. From this distance, he can count the individual freckles on Ghost’s nose. “Don’t go wrecking my handiwork already.”

Ghost’s dark eyes sparkle, and his expression changes as if to say something, but he’s cut off by the distant sound of their approaching exfil. Soap is both relieved and pissed at the same time. He groans and Ghost laughs at him, clapping him on the shoulder. His laugh is a near silent thing, more of a shaking of his shoulders than anything else, and it’s so unbearably Ghost that, without the mask on to hide his annoyingly brilliant smile, Soap has to fight to contain himself.

“Up you get,” he mumbles, grabbing onto Soap’s sides to help lift him up. He sputters at the manhandling, something Ghost definitely notices but chooses not to comment on. Ghost grabs his tac vest from where Soap had thrown it off earlier, securing it around his massive chest.

“Stop staring at my tits,” Ghost says, quirking an eyebrow. Soap smiles sheepishly, not attempting to deny it because… well. His undershirt is quite well-fitting.

Ghost tugs the mask back on, a rip across it to match the one in his cheek.

“After debrief, after medical…” Soap says, having to pause under the weight of Ghost’s full attention, “I’ll come find you and we’ll see about that bourbon, aye?”

“Copy,” Ghost replies, and Soap can imagine his smile under the mask.

Chapter Text

It turns out that the next time Soap finds Ghost alone is three weeks later.

Fucking work, fucking 141, fucking Russians. All these things kept Soap and Ghost just out of reach from each other for the longest three weeks of his goddamn life. Sure, they were still sat right fucking next to each other most of the time, but they were on mission and had to act like it.

There was a new kind of glint in Ghost’s eye when he caught Soap looking at him, though; one that reminded him of the promise he made on the floor of some war-torn building in Urzikstan.

He swears Ghost tortures him on purpose sometimes. Gets him all worked up for his own amusement, knowing neither of them can do a damned thing about it with their entire task force never more than two feet away. He’ll flick his wrist just so while cleaning his gun’s extended barrel, use one of his less favorable knives to pick at his too-sharp teeth and run his tongue across his pink gums.

Soap is close to killing him when Price announces Task Force 141 will be touching down in England in fifteen minutes. Gaz celebrates with a drawn-out yawn, his knees knocking against the back of his seat. Ghost’s hand stops its slow ascent up the inside of Soap’s leg. He turns his head ever so slightly away from his book and towards Soap, his eyebrows raising. His nose bridge is left uncovered in the gap between his mask and his sunglasses, and it’s painfully erotic in the way that everything about Ghost is hot without him even having to try. Soap thinks he must be foaming at the mouth.

After everything, when he’s back on base and finally without anything left to do, Soap finds himself sweating like a whore in church on Ghost’s doorstep. The bottle of bourbon rolls back and forth in his hands. He’s working up the will to knock when the door opens for him, revealing behind it a freshly showered Ghost. He wears his cotton balaclava, a black, tight-fitting compression shirt, and sweatpants. It’s more casual than he’s ever seen Ghost and Soap just about melts into the floor.

“Johnny,” Ghost greets, warmth in each syllable of his name.

“Ghost,” Soap says, holding up the bottle. “Brought you a present.”

“My, my,” Ghost purrs, “I like a man who keeps his promises.”

Soap feels heat rush to his face at the baritone of Ghost’s voice. He thinks of Ghost’s hands— currently ungloved, his left one covered in tattoos and gripping the door. The skin around the beds of his nails is red, like he’s been picking at them. Perhaps he was just as anxious as Soap. “Let’s see if you’ll make good on yours.”

Ghost’s eyes flash with mirth and he opens the door wider to usher Soap inside. He realizes this is the first time he’s seen his Lieutenant’s room. It’s much like Soap’s own, but a little bigger and just a touch less tidy. The double bed is made neatly enough to pass inspection twice over, but there’s a spare mask on the bedside table, a sweatshirt strewn over the back of a chair, a singular photograph tacked onto the wall above his desk. Upon closer inspection, it’s an old team photo of the 141, taken maybe a couple of weeks after Price had recruited them.

“You big softie,” Soap huffs. He touches his thumb to the skull mask in the photo. He doesn’t know how people see Ghost as some kind of killing machine when it’s so obvious how much he cares about his team.

The other regards him silently as he explores his room, leaning against a wall by the door with his arms crossed. He has a natural stillness to him, a total lack of movement that Soap could never dream to replicate.

“Bloody hell, you’ve even got your own bathroom,” he says. The mirror is still clouded over from shower steam. “What don’t you have in here?”

“Glasses for that bourbon,” Ghost remarks. His voice is much closer than expected. Soap turns around, nearly smacking into the sneaky bastard’s chest. “Come have a seat, Johnny.”

Soap’s mouth twists up into a smile at Ghost’s impatience. “You got important plans later tonight, or what?”

Ghost’s eyes narrow and he grabs Soap’s arm, hauling him into one of the chairs at the desk. Ghost takes the other for himself, scooting it closer until their knees are touching under the table. It’s one of many gestures that have become noticeably more frequent in the past few weeks, casual yet intimate. He doesn’t know how he survived, before, without the anchor of Ghost’s calloused fingertips.

Soap screws open the bottle. He passes it to Ghost, “Ladies first.”

He rolls his eyes so hard that Soap is surprised they don’t fall out of his head. He pulls his mask up just enough to take a sip of the drink. “Fucking insufferable, you are.”

“You invited me in, sir.”

“I invited the bourbon in.”

“Nae. I think you’ve taken a liking to me, Simon.”

Dim orange light from the setting sun streams in from between the folds of drapery partially covering the singular window. It illuminates the room just enough to see the brief pout of Ghost’s lips. “S’pose that’s right.”

He passes the bottle to Soap, who takes a long sip. The bourbon burns going down his throat and gives him a pleasant buzz under his skin. It’s not half bad, even though he prefers scotch. “I wanna see you.”

“Sitting right here, MacTavish.” Ghost kicks his sneaker into Soap’s underneath the table, as if to prove his own point.

He passes the bottle back to Ghost. Their knuckles brush against each other. The contact makes Soap feel bold, more inclined to toe that line that stops him and Ghost from becoming more than just friends. “You know what I mean.”

Ghost pauses for a moment to consider him. He maintains eye contact, determined to pass whatever mental test Ghost is evaluating him for. It goes on so long that Soap starts to think he might ask him to leave. Finally, he grumbles, “I’ll never understand your obsession,” and takes the mask off.

Soap exhales. The wound on Ghost’s cheek has healed enough to not require bandaging and the stitches have since been removed, but it still looks hellish. Soap leans forward to run his thumb along the initial point of contact, keeping his touch feather-light, where the wound is deepest, to the right of his mouth. Criss-crossing lacerations continue backward, stopping just an inch or so before the corner of his jaw. He pulls his hand away and clenches his teeth, wishing he could have killed the motherfucker who did this to Ghost slower.

Ghost sighs at the absence of touch. Soap feels a trace of déjà vu.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, because he didn’t say it before, and he needs Ghost to know.

Ghost averts his eyes to the bottle cradled in his large hands, a rosy blush adorning his cheeks. “No need to lay it on so thick, Sergeant. You’ve already secured your way into my pants tonight.”

Soap grabs his wrist so that he’ll look at him. His pulse beats fast under Soap’s fingertips and his eyes— always so fucking expressive, despite all the black he tries to hide them with— are guarded. “I don’t want just that, Simon. I know it’s dangerous to get close to people in our line of work, but I care about you. I’ve never been more scared than when I thought that bullet could have been fatal. If you’d… I don’t trust anyone else like I trust you. You’re the only person I can talk to all day and night without missing a beat. You make my head spin like I’m on a fucking roller coaster, but you keep me grounded when it counts. I like your voice, your face, the way you carry yourself. You could clear a whole room of people with just one knife and a shadowy corner. People move mountains for you because you’ve built your reputation on always being the scariest motherfucker in the room, and you deserve all the respect you get. You’re amazing, and skilled, and proper funny, too, and I’m really, really glad you’ve let me know you, Ghost.”

A few seconds pass. Ghost remains frozen in shock. The thought crosses his mind that this might be the first time someone has told him they care about him. His wide eyes dart around Soap’s face and Soap can feel the muscles in his wrist flex as he clenches his fist.

“Jesus, Johnny,” Ghost says. His voice is strained and Soap’s heart clenches in his chest. He wants to hold Ghost until he knows that he’s loved.

“Did I—“

Ghost sets the bourbon down on the table with his free hand, using his other to tug Soap over to his bed. He falls backward into the sheets, Soap landing on top of him with a huff.

“Shut up and kiss me already.”

Soap smiles slowly. “Yes, sir.”

Ghost raises his eyebrows in expectation, and who is Soap to deny him anything? He presses his lips down to Ghost’s, who brings up a warm hand to cup the back of Soap’s head. Ghost’s mouth is pliant and soft under his, parting easily when he wants to trace the sharpness of his teeth with his tongue. Ghost gasps softly and uses his strong thighs to pull Soap’s hips down against his own. Soap’s already well on his way to being hard, and now he can feel that Ghost is, too.

Their last kiss was desperate, fueled mostly by adrenaline; this kiss, though… Soap has wanted it for so long, he thinks that if he doesn’t have Ghost right now he might starve.

He breaks the kiss for a moment and pulls them up to tug Ghost’s shirt over his head. He takes his off, too, for good measure, and watches Ghost’s half-lidded eyes widen ever so slightly. Soap’s fingers brush over the fat around his stomach, up his delicate ribs, over his bloody, beating heart, coming to rest on his chest. Ghost’s tits are as muscular and soft as the rest of him. He pinches a pink nipple in between two of his fingers.

“Gorgeous boy,” he preens at him. Ghost whimpers, looking away from him in embarrassment, his fingers squeezing bruises into Soap’s hips. There’s a blotchy blush high on his cheeks and creeping down into his chest and Soap almost comes in his fucking pants. “You like it when I tell you you’re pretty, Simon? ‘Cause you are. I could say it forever.”

“Got a sinful fuckin’ mouth on you, MacTavish,” Ghost grumbles, arching up to kiss him again. His teeth bite down, quickly, tactically, on Soap’s bottom lip to draw blood. It dribbles down Soap’s chin and onto his collarbone and Ghost licks it into his mouth like it’s the wine of the gods. The drag of his hot tongue on his skin makes it hard to breathe properly. Red stains the corner of his mouth when he pulls away to admire the way his saliva makes Soap’s skin glisten.

“Fuck,” Soap pants. Ghost sucks a mark into his shoulder, over an old scar, his big hands clutching at Soap’s arms to stabilize him. Desire churns deep in his gut. “Tell me what you want, Ghost.”

He rolls his hips up to drag against Soap’s, a small smirk playing at his spit-slick lips like he’s got a funny joke in his head. The friction offers some relief, but before he can do anything else, Ghost flips him around to lay flat on his back like he would if they were sparring. It’s quick as the snap of a gun, and requires a hell of a lot of strength, and Soap’s erection presses uncomfortably against his zipper.

“Don’t call me that when we’re like this,” Ghost chides, “Try again.”

“Simon, please,” he says without a second thought. He wraps his arms around Ghost’s neck to bring him closer. The sunlight from the window surrounds the back of Ghost's head in a halo of orange, illuminating the lightness of his beach blonde hair and casting his dilated, wild eyes in dark shadow. He paws at the front of Soap’s pants to undo them, grinds his knuckles into the thin fabric above his aching cock. “T-tell me– ah– tell me what you want.”

“Better,” Ghost coos, his accent thicker with his arousal. “I’m gonna ride you ‘til I come, and then you’re going to fuck me proper.”

Soap groans at the mental image of that, at the sheer insanity of Ghost even saying those words to him in his sexy fucking voice. “I like the sound o’ that.”

“You’ll like the feeling of it better,” Ghost says, kisses him, then leans over him to reach for his bedside table. A wooden drawer scrapes as Ghost rips it open. Wrappers crinkle. Ghost’s bare navel is right in front of Soap’s mouth. He shoves his nose into the blonde patch of hair just above the waistline of his slutty sweatpants, and beneath the fresh scent of his cheap military-grade soap and the sweat clinging to his skin is his natural musk. Ghost twitches and swears, one hand coming down to hold Soap’s head in place as his breath dampens the fabric.

“Bloody hell, Johnny,” Ghost growls. He shoves his head away, not unkindly, then makes quick work of both their pants. Ghost has, notably, not been wearing underwear. Bloody Christmas. His dick is fucking massive. Ghost pulls his bottom lip into his mouth for a moment, looking downwards into Soap’s lap, before exhaling. “Fucking impatient, aren’t you? So ready for me, Johnny. Just for me. No one else gets to see you like this.”

“I need you,” Soap whines.

“You have me,” Ghost replies, straddling his hips. He pours a hearty blob of lube into his hand, then wraps his hand around Soap’s leaking cock. Tremors make his stomach tighten as Ghost strokes him so fucking slow. “Ready?”

Soap frowns. “What about you?”

“Prepped myself before you got here.” Ghost is going to be the end of him. Of course the bastard planned this.

Soap sneaks a hand under Ghost’s ass, plunging two exploratory fingers inside. He finds his statement to be true, the heat of him already slippery and pliant around Soap’s fingers. Soap curls his fingers up, and Ghost exhales violently.

“Was thinking about you in the shower, knew you couldn’t stay away for long. Thought about how amazing you’d look like this, under me, inside me,” Ghost murmurs, his breath coming in short bursts.

“Fuck,” he swears. As much as he wants to stay here and finger Ghost, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to last as long as Ghost wants him to if he does. So he moves his hands to grip Ghost’s strong thighs instead. “You’re so hot, so good, Simon.”

A beat of silence as Ghost stares at him with fire behind his eyes. “You’ll be the death of me,” he mumbles. Then he lowers himself onto Soap’s lap, and Soap sees stars in his blacked-out vision. His head falls back against the soft pillow. Ghost gasps as he takes more, a quiet litany of ah, ah, ah. It’s so tight, so warm, so… So much. It takes physical effort for Soap to stop himself from thrusting his hips up.

“There,” Ghost says, breathless, once all of Soap is inside him. They breathe together like that, unmoving, for a few moments. Ghost’s dark eyes are unfocused and he’s the most beautiful thing Soap has ever seen. He reaches down to trace his fingers along the edge where he and Johnny meet. There’s something intensely intimate about the shake of his ever-steady thighs bracketing Soap’s hips. Then his nails scratch up Soap’s chest as he arches forward to lick into his mouth. “Tell me how good I feel.”

“Like a fuckin’ dream, sweetheart. S-so sweet and wet for me.”

Ghost hums, a soft, satiated smile on his swollen lips. He leans back, places his hands on Soap’s abdomen to balance himself, and starts to move. A slow drag up; the wet slap of skin as he slams down. Again. All Soap can do is hold on while Simon fucks himself on him. Ghost pants, his voice rising deliciously higher, sweet praises spilling from his mouth.

“You’ve got no idea- fuck- how much I wanted to- to suck you off after you kissed me on that mission. Ah. Kept thinking about how– fucking hell. You’re mine, Johnny. I’ve got– mm. I’ve got you. How your fat cock would feel pressing against the fresh cut in my mouth. Hurt so fucking good.”

He knows Ghost is getting close when his babbling cuts off and he bounces faster, harder, on Soap’s dick. He gathers his wits about him and wraps a hand around Ghost’s cock, pumping to the pace Ghost has set for himself. “C’mon, Simon, gorgeous, come for me.”

“Fuck, Johnny,” Ghost whines, covering Soap’s hand with his own. He’s so hot around him that it almost makes him forget Ghost’s second request. Almost. He picks up the pace and thinks about anything other than Ghost’s burly expanse of scarred, pale skin, trying to get Ghost to come before he does.

“Good boy, Simon. Come on,” Soap encourages. It’s only a few more twists of his wrist before Ghost moans like it had been dragged out from deep within his chest cavity. His come spills in thick, creamy spurts over their knuckles and stomachs.

“Johnny,” he gasps, his jaw slack. Soap milks the orgasm from him, watching the quick rise and fall of his full chest. Bloody hell, he’s stunning.

Soap gathers the come from their hands and shoves it into Ghost’s wet mouth. He sucks the liquid off Soap’s fingers obediently, swirling his tongue to get all of it, too fucked out of his mind to think about it. Soap thanks all the gods he knows of for his military-trained endurance and self fucking control over his body.

Stillness falls over the room as Ghost sits there another few moments after he’s spent, his damp spiky hair sticking to his forehead. He breathes in, then pulls himself off Soap’s cock and falls next to him on the mattress. Soap misses the heat of him immediately.

“Alright,” Ghost slurs, brushing the sweat out of his eyes with his arm. His knees spread apart to allow more room for Soap, and he uses his other hand to shakily stroke himself, his wrist twitching from the throbbing hurt of the overstimulation. “Your turn.”

Soap doesn’t need to be told twice. His dick feels in danger of falling off. He rolls over on top of Ghost– “You sure you’re good?” “Shut up, Johnny.”-- and pushes back in. Ghost’s hands immediately come up, his blunt nails digging into his back.

He practically mewls, his chest pressing against Soap’s as he arches up.

“You’re taking it so well,” Soap praises when he bottoms out.

“Fuck me,” Ghost gasps. Tears make his long eyelashes clump together; he looks completely and utterly wrecked. Soap wants to ruin him more, wants to give it to him rough like he knows Ghost would like it.

“That’s the plan, sweet thing,” Soap huffs, punctuating his sentence with a squeeze to Ghost’s side as he slides a pillow under his lower back.

It only takes a few hard thrusts, quick snaps of his hips, and breathy moans from Ghost before Soap’s climax slams into him at full force. Fog rolls over his mind, making it completely blank. He buries his face into Ghost’s shoulder until he can hear again.

“Shit,” he says eloquently.

“That’s it, Johnny,” Ghost runs his hands up and down his back, panting hoarsely next to his ear, and Soap can tell that he’s close, and he so desperately wants to take care of him, wants to give him this release.

“I’m yours, Simon,” he declares into Ghost’s skin, still inside him. He leaves a trail of tender kisses up his neck. “I’m fuckin’ yours. I’m yours and you’re mine and you’ve ruined me for anyone else, no one could ever come after you.”

Just like that, Ghost comes again, and he’s definitely going to have bruises on his back tomorrow.

—

Soap comes to later when the room is completely dark and humid with sex. He’s laying half on top of Ghost, nestled underneath his chin. The rag he had used to clean them off is stiff and stuck uncomfortably to Soap’s side. Quiet, stable breathing pushes hot air onto Soap’s cheek, and he feels safe in Ghost’s hold, falling asleep again to the gentle rhythm of his breath.

—

“Johnny.”

Soap blinks, the bright light of morning hurting his eyes. Memories of the night prior slowly come back to him.

Ghost nudges him again with his nose, his voice a low timbre next to Soap’s ear. “Johnny.”

“Mm?” Soap hums. His skin is hot all over, Ghost radiating heat like a goddamn furnace under him.

He kisses Soap’s forehead. “Get us a tea,” he drawls.

Soap groans, really, really, not wanting to get up. “Why can’t you do it?”

“You’re in my way, you numpty.”

“Never been a problem for you before,” he mumbles under his breath, but pries himself from Ghost’s grasp to find his discarded clothes. He finds his jeans and underwear in the sheets, his shirt on the floor, his sneakers near Ghost’s desk.

“You coming, Ghost?” he asks after he finishes tying his shoes and Ghost is still immobile.

Ghost bites his cheek and glares.

“Oh my god,” Soap says, dissolving into laughter, “You actually can’t stand up.”

“Your fucking fault, Johnny.” Ghost lets him laugh for a moment before waving him out of his room with his hand. “Alright, mate. Get a move on.”

“Gonna put orange juice in your fuckin’ tea,” Soap grumbles.

“I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave!” Ghost calls from the bed as Soap slips out into the hallway. Soap sticks one hand back in the room to flip him off, ‘cause he’s petty like that.

Luck must be on his side that morning, because he doesn’t run into anyone in the barracks’ shared kitchenette. Just in case, he comes up with stories of vicious bear attacks to explain the absolute mess of bruises peeking out of his collar as he waits for the water in the kettle to steam.

He doesn’t hear Ghost enter the room so much as feel the air shift to accommodate for his presence. Ever the goddamned contrarian.

“Thought you were gonna wait up for me,” Soap says as Ghost’s arms wrap around his waist behind him. He leans his head back to kiss him on his masked cheek still warm from sleep.

“Missed you,” Ghost sighs. Calloused fingertips drag lazily across his stomach under his shirt.

Soap chuckles. His heart feels light from the domesticity of it all. The thought of them going on leave together enters his mind, waking up to Ghost by his side, making him eggs and tea in the morning. “You’re cute.”

Ghost bristles against his back and scoffs. “‘M not fuckin’ cute.”

“You are, though,” Soap spins around to face him. Ghost’s eyes narrow and Soap can imagine his pout. There’s a few loose strands of blonde hair poking out of his balaclava. Case and point– bloody fuckin’ cute. The kettle whistles loudly, breaking their eye contact. “I’ve got it. Go have a seat, Simon.”

He readies two cups of tea– a disgusting amount of milk and sugar for Ghost– while Ghost clears off a table for them. He swears when he sits down and Soap has to fight himself not to laugh.

“Rough night last night, Lieutenant Riley?” He passes the tea to Ghost and sits across from him.

“One more fucking word, MacTavish, I swear to god I’ll gut you.”

“Romantic.”

Ghost rolls his eyes, but when they come back to rest on his face, he blinks slow, like he loves him, and Soap thinks they’ll be okay.