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Soap breathed near death experiences. He needed danger like most people needed oxygen.
The way he liked to fuck wasn't exempt from that preference. The closer to dying, the better.
He needed to black out on the stretch of his hole around a cock. Not just one, either. Cocks , one after the other. Different lengths, different widths. The unpredictability, the relentless use . He needed it.
Soap's hands were bound behind his back, trussed up tight, the rope cutting into his wrists. Military knots. He wasn't getting out of it, not without brute strength and a broken hand.
A blindfold of dark cloth was wrapped around his head, carefully, blotting out any reservations he might have had if he could see .
His thighs were already trembling, a thick cock grinding into him, forcefully–calloused hands pinning him in place to take the assault. Talking wasn't allowed, for anonymity, but vulgar grunting and panting was just fine, and Soap's ear was filled with it, then filled with the wet sound of a tongue licking at his lobe, biting it. The shaky, low-toned exhale against his damp skin made him shudder a little.
He needed the way the smooth, delicate skin of his round ass cheeks got unbearably sensitive and hot from friction, then numb from the rough slapping of pelvic bones against them for too long.
Soap was already drooling, strings of it dribbling down his chin onto his sheets. His eyes were wet with tears under his blindfold, lips so full and swollen around a monster of a dick, taking it in his throat while he took another in his ass, pushed back and forth between the two like nothing more than a doll.
He couldn't function if he wasn't forced to take the abuse of a prick shoved down his throat, wedged so good that he couldn't breathe. Thought he might actually suffocate to death.
The infamous Soap MacTavish, choked out by dick.
He growled when his head was forced back even more by the guy behind him grabbing at his mohawk. He probably wanted to see the way Soap's mouth was gaping open, fucked as thoroughly as he was fucking his hole.
Soap liked being looked at. His semi turned into a nice stiff curve against his belly, leaking onto the sheets with his spit.
He lived for the aggressive tugging at his hair, prickling along his scalp, painful, making all his nerve endings there so, so tender. He trimmed it all into one nice, neat handle for a reason .
Had nothing to do with aesthetics, everything to do with sex, rough sex. So the arseholes that fucked him knew exactly where to grab on for some leverage to get inside him better.
His kept up, trained body could take a lot before it broke.
So far, no one had truly broken him, and fuck, he had no idea how many men had been inside him.
There were times when he probably should have tapped out, but he never did, and he'd only vaguely lost a bit of time once or twice.
That didn't count as broken.
He liked the thrill of it. That was all. The risky, fucked up behavior had nothing to do with his profound sense of unworthiness, his complete lack of self esteem when he wasn't on the receiving end of intense scrutiny.
Nothing to do with how unsettled he was when he was all alone, left to the sound of his own thoughts knocking around his skull.
No.
He just wanted to be filled and spat on and bent under the will of others until he couldn't feel his own bones anymore, until he was nothing but need meeting the pulse of whatever prick was inside him.
He wanted to be railed completely unconscious, disrespected, violently.
Normal stuff.
Sure, he was the prodigal slut of the Special Air Service, and sure, there were rumors that he'd sucked Price's dick and whoever else's dick to get where he was, but he didn't much give a fuck. Negative attention was still attention.
Soap felt the fullness inside him slip away, slip out, fast, and he heard the blunt, pulpy sounds of some punches, the growl on the end of a shove.
Fuckin' military guys, they were so greedy and belligerent when they were hard up. Sometimes, they fought over who got to go next. And Soap had to kneel there, spread and ready, waiting for the victor while he kept taking it in the mouth.
So much noise , in his room, on base, no less. But, honestly, somewhere along the way, Soap started longing to get caught.
The whole thing was a need, but there was a need that was growing stronger. Stronger, and stronger. A need that surpassed all the others, made him so hard and so crazy that he scared himself a little.
He wanted to get caught. But not just by anyone .
That harsh, cold hazel stare. Caught red-handed by his strict, exacting lieutenant breaking every possible misconduct rule in the handbook? Fuck.
Yeah, he wanted Ghost to catch him, punish him, maybe. Wanted him to join in, if he was a real lucky boy, if he could have one wish, one very special wish. Like early Christmas.
Even if he just got chewed out, got Ghost's eyes on him full of disgust and displeasure, at least he'd have his undivided attention.
Wasn't like the inappropriate thoughts about his superior didn't mostly involve being shouted at, humiliated by him, in that deep, unmistakable voice.
Despite the sound of the scuffle in the small, overcrowded room, despite the rough, inconsiderate tugs at his hips, the way Soap was jerked down onto, into his own mattress as a winner finally climbed onto it and mounted him - he drifted further into his fantasies, thought about Ghost fighting other men off to fuck him.
He strained so hard for any sign that Ghost might be there, every time, hoping.
He prayed that Ghost's perfectly supple, worn down leather gloves would grasp him by the waist, claim him like he'd already done with his orders, with the little ways he'd already stepped across the boundaries that should've been between them.
His legs shifted open more, hips canting up, presenting himself more fully at the desire.
Soap knew how Ghost handled weapons, handled his gear. Commanding, perfectly precise, firm . He wanted Ghost to handle his body the same way.
The way Ghost slotted a round into his magazine with his thumb; the way Ghost slotted a knife into a victim's carotid.
All he could think about was Ghost's carefully controlled viciousness, his violence. And he was bored of everything else.
He hoped the man that had won was Ghost. That the cock about to slide into him was Ghost , that Ghost would finally fill him with his come.
Soap had seen him, once. Unaroused, pissing. He was huge. Proportional to his massive body, hung so heavily between his legs that Soap fantasized about just that . Feeling the weight of Ghost's whole package on his cheek, on his impatient lips. The devotions he would whisper on that pretty, uncut cockhead before he swallowed the whole thing.
What he wouldn't give to feel that soft looking pubic hair teasing his mouth and his nose, to finally find out what it smelled like.
If Ghost's cock filled him up, he'd know it. He'd see God. Soap knew that much.
But heaven didn't open up for him. When the fucking continued, it wasn't life changing. It felt good, yeah, anything would feel good brushing up against his prostate that desperately, but it was standard.
He relented to it, moaned a little when one of his men slapped his ass cheek.
Then, he heard something new. The door opening, shutting, violently. The clinking of ice against a glass. “ What's –” he whispered, shaky against the rough pounding that stopped, instantly. Immediate, complete stillness.
That sound again, ice in a circular motion. The glass placed on his desk. Not gently.
Everything had gone so quiet. He could feel the difference in the room. All Soap could hear was the way every man in that room was trying to reign in their aroused heaving, like they were afraid to even breathe .
It was like they were all waiting for some sort of fucking permission to exist.
The hair on the back of his neck was standing up.
The scrape of his desk chair against the hard barracks linoleum. The sound of that fucking ice again. A body settling. The chair creaked under the weight.
“Well, get on with it.” Soap almost came. The words were rough and arrogant and they destroyed him. Ghost. Ghost . There was still someone inside him, but he was barely paying attention to that anymore, all his senses that weren't impaired focused so hard on where he'd heard that voice come from, his neck craning for any little sound Ghost might make.
He heard the sound of a zip, and he whined, edging toward the end of his mattress, towards where his desk was. “ Lt ....”
The hips, thighs behind him moved, though, so slightly, then a little faster, but the cock buried balls deep in his ass had gone kind of soft. Probably out of pure fear.
That softness, the reason for it made Soap harder . Harder than he'd ever been.
These battle-hardened men were all scared of Ghost. And all Soap wanted was his ruin. The black hole that he was, Soap wanted to be crushed in its inevitable, fatal pull.
“Lt., please,” he begged, for whatever he could get now that he had that attention on him.
“ Christ , you're all pathetic. Perfect piece of arse like that. Can't even fuck it proper. Why's he still talkin '?”
Please , Soap wanted to beg again. Please make me stop talking .
The wind was being fucked out of him, then, the deep hit to a soldier’s pride unbearable, apparently. It wasn't enough to distract him, though. Nothing was stronger than Soap’s obsession with his lieutenant.
Soap snarled, twisting, pulling at his restraints. So hard he could feel the rope give a little.
“Can't even control him,” Ghost sounded so fucking disappointed, and Soap was shouldering at his blindfold, desperately, trying to get it off without his hands, trying to see something . He couldn't bear not knowing what Ghost looked like. Ghost seeing him like that , for the first time. Naked and fucked.
He could hear Ghost getting up, and he pushed his face against his arm harder.
Ghost was already grasping his neck, but not before Soap had gotten the blindfold off enough for the corner of his bright blue eye to look up through his wet lashes, make out the furious arousal in Ghost’s dark eyes. Make out his full gear. The steel hard cock that was curving from where his jeans were unzipped.
Ghost growled from that immense chest.
Soap grinned, all teeth, before Ghost tugged his blindfold down again.
Soap was going to regret that. But he didn’t care.
Ghost’s hand on his neck didn't let up. The pressure got tighter, fingers digging into his feverish skin, his jugular, making him lightheaded. He couldn’t see, but he could smell and feel, and he tried to crawl toward Ghost, pushing forward into his leather-sheathed grip, into his welcome, easy brutality, closer to the heady musk on him as hips kept rocking into him, making it difficult.
Ghost had just gotten back. Soap knew it by the pungent scent of sweat on him. He could picture it, in his head, the few times he’d seen Ghost take off his jacket, the dark tee underneath even darker under his pits, soaked. The front of his shirt, too. At the center of his pecs, around his belly.
Splotches of damp cotton that Soap wanted to suck at. Fuck, he wanted to know what that looked like underneath. He must be hairy , to hold onto that much sweat.
He’d just gotten back, and he hadn’t gone to shower, hadn’t gone to sleep. He’d come to see Soap.
And now he was seeing Soap, every naked, golden-skinned centimeter of him.
“ Want you,” Soap was still pleading, and he thought about how pitiful he sounded, looked, all tied up and used, but, “ I want you ,” again, and, “Let me–” he tried to get at that fat cock, the one he knew was leaking, hanging out of Ghost's open fly.
Ghost liked what he saw, that much was obvious. Soap had gotten such a short glimpse, but it was so fuckin' good, so big. So veiny. He liked them veiny. Figured, Ghost's cock would look as violent as he was. He wanted to trace every single one of those veins with his tongue, feel the way they pulsed, all filled up and swollen for him. For him .
But Ghost’s hand wrapped around his neck, harder. And it would only take a slight motion–nothing, really, for him to snap it. Soap swallowed against the pain. He wanted more. He tried to speak a third time, but that was stupid.
Ghost jerked him, hard, once, in warning.
“Do I need to fuckin' gag you, sergeant? Shut your bleedin' mouth .”
Anything, anything to get Ghost to stay there, looking at him, touching him. He quieted himself as much as he could while he was still being fucked into his own sheets, but he couldn't help the small gasps that escaped his lips. He tried. He tried .
Ghost let his neck go, but he didn't know if that was a good thing. A mercy, yeah, but the loss felt overwhelming. Breathing, why the fuck did he need to do that?
“Fuck him deeper, corporal,” Ghost’s lieutenant voice commanded from too fucking far away.
The problem was, the dick inside of him wasn't doing much anymore. It was like white noise in comparison to how bad he was leaking for Ghost. The things he would do for Ghost.
He felt the motions, in his ass, in his thighs, jerking through his body, but it was nothing. He needed Ghost’s voice, he needed his devastation. He could barely contain the way he was gripping at the rope around his wrists, could barely contain the fury that was building in his gut. “Ghost, Jesus, please, fuck me .”
The mattress dipped dangerously low when Ghost climbed up onto it, and Soap knew he was getting behind the soldier that was inside him, could tell by the way the thrusting got shallow and the fronts of thighs were more snug against his, by the way he was being bounced a little further up the bed.
“Get in there harder ,” Ghost's words were ground out of his chest, threatening. “Stop bein' such a jessie about it. I don't wanna hear another word from this little bitch.”
There were other hands on him, then. That leather on the fronts of his thighs, pulling him back towards the cock that started viciously driving into him, holding him there, holding him in a perfect position, perfect . He knew what he was doing; he knew where that cock was hitting, knew it would pull sex-stupid sounds from Soap's throat, bare in the way he needed, loud.
“There you fuckin' go. That's what this cockslut wants. Ain't it, Johnny? Give him bruises.” The hands grasping his thighs tightened, thumbs caressing them.
Yeah, Ghost knew exactly what he was doing. Knew he wouldn't be able to answer.
It was like he was being fucked by Ghost indirectly, almost, and Soap was so hard he didn't know what the hell to do but whimper, fist his hands around the rope keeping them captive, cry a little.
“Now touch ‘im.”
The tense, bowed line of his muscle bound back strained even harder, arched even further down under the press of Ghost’s hand into his spine, making him spread his legs involuntarily, and he knew he had Ghost’s eyes on everything between them.
A hand wrapped around him, and he was getting so close. So fucking close.
Soap wasn’t really big, not at first, not until he was really, really fucking hard. And even then, he was still average in length. He was pretty good around, though, and he'd been told a lot of times he tasted real nice, was pleasing on the tongue.
The recruits all liked playin’ with it, and it made him feel real good about himself, but the stroke of leather down the shaft of him, barely even there next to the bare fingers around him–that made him feel so good that he wasn't sure he could hold back anymore.
He really was crying, the pleasure, the insanity of what was happening. How the hell did Ghost know what his most base requirements were? How did he know how much Soap needed to be bossed about, stepped on, humiliated.
The gloved hand that was on his thigh moved to his waist, and Ghost was thrusting against the hips that were thrusting against his. Soap felt lightheaded at the way the nameless man between them was moaning. He felt like he was gonna pass out, from the heat in his groin and from how jealous he was getting.
“Ah fuck. Ahhh fuck . Fuck ,” the hand jerking him between his legs was joined by Ghost’s, around it, forcing it to go harder, stimulate him to the very edge of his tolerance before it stopped.
“You want to be treated like dirt, don't you, Johnny?”
The four hands on him were digging in so hard, Ghost was making him get fucked so thoroughly that Soap genuinely couldn’t answer. Couldn’t make words, couldn’t do anything but strangle on his own breaths, gasp and groan the same way the other men in the room were. Exactly what the fucker wanted.
Exactly what he wanted.
Ghost rounded his front, took his chin into his hand, raised him up off the bed with it, the only point of contact keeping him from falling. The only point of contact forcing him up and into the pounding from behind. Ghost grasped his cheeks in both hands, brought him up even higher, getting him into that wonderful, amazing angle again, and Soap was panting into his glove, humid, wet, thrashing a little. He was going to come. He was going to come, and he realized he was waiting . He was waiting for Ghost to tell him he could.
Ghost brushed his bottom lip with a finger. "You're so goddamn beautiful. So. Fuckin'. Beautiful ," Ghost whispered, just for him, and Soap swore Ghost sounded like he was going to sob, a little. The emotion from that mouth wasn't familiar at all .
The possessiveness he could feel in those hands on his face.
He could feel the cock inside him spilling. He wanted it to be Ghost’s spend, he imagined it was, filling him up, claiming him.
Soap was coming, before he could stop himself, and he felt instant, hot shame, that he hadn't waited. But there was nothing he could do about it.
He’d made a mess on whoever-the-fuck’s hand and on the sheets, and Ghost let him drop down, unceremoniously, head first into the mattress, chest first into the mess he made.
“Get the fuck out, all of you.”
Soap was heaving, trying to get a damn hold of himself, but he still couldn’t move, couldn’t see. He heard the sounds of clothing being grabbed, tugged on. The sound of his door.
He heard the sound of it lock behind everyone.
Soap got up, got to a kneeling position, hands still forcefully behind him. “Please, take this off,” Soap shook his head a little, knew Ghost would know what he was talking about. His tears had completely bled through the material, and it was so uncomfortable.
But Ghost didn't listen to him.
He just dragged Soap back down again, towards the edge of the bed, where he was standing, put himself against Soap’s mouth, but it wasn’t at an angle he could get to, not with his hands tied behind his back. All he could do was feel the hot, hard skin against his lips, against his face, rub at it with his cheek. He didn’t hide the fact that he was smelling it, didn’t hide the fact that he was desperate for it, mouth automatically opening.
“I don't even need to order you to do it, do I?”
Soap shook his head, his words failing him again. He shook his head so fucking hard. No, no , he didn't need any order. He’d suck his lieutenant into his mouth without question.
And maybe he was gettin’ all mixed up because Ghost was his superior. He didn’t fucking know. He just wanted Ghost to dip that dick down a little bit, just enough for him to get it in his mouth, in his throat.
Ghost brushed the head of himself over Soap’s lips, spreading his precome on them, and Soap ate it, hungry, tried to get more. Ghost was quiet, and then, "Ah, fuck, Johnny." He let go.
“No. No , Ghost. Please. Want you to fuck me, too. Fuck, let me do somethin’ for you,” Soap whined, his mouth half in his soiled sheets.
“God no, you're all used up aren't ya? I don't want the sloppy seconds.” Ghost laughed, his cruel, beautiful laugh. “Not even seconds, eh? Best you are right now is a come rag. Best I can treat ya.”
Soap whimpered, like a dog. If he got the scraps, that was fine. As long as he got something. He rolled onto his back, the way his arms were trapped underneath him, making the entire front of his body stretch out obscenely, legs spread, everything for Ghost to see, like he was exposing his belly in submission, letting his potential mate sniff him out, decide if he wanted to keep him or gut him.
That got him a groan. And he could hear the wet, sloppy sound of Ghost jerking himself off.
Ghost didn't make much noise, just breathed, heavy, muffled by his balaclava, and Soap would give anything to get his hands on that, put it on his own face. Take in the spit and sweat and hot damp breath on the inside of it.
He squirmed, “Lt., fuck.”
Something in his tone pushed Ghost over, and his warm blessing of come was spattering down, onto him, slicking him up more.
“Aye, aye , sir, yeah ,” he growled, pushing up into the feeling of it, even though he was disappointed he didn’t get to take it inside himself and keep it.
Ghost ran his fingers through the stickiness he’d left on Soap’s stomach, fingers prodding at him, meticulous, in just the right spot, and Soap realized how full he was, how much he needed to–“Nnnn,” he whined.
Ghost prodded at his full groin again, low, right above the base of him, and Soap groaned that pained groan again, “Please, I'm gunna–”
“What's it matter? You're already a fucking mess. Let it go for me. Show me what you’ll do for me.”
Soap nodded, was so turned on at that, he would’ve gotten hard if he could’ve. “ Alright –”
Ghost pushed at that sensitive spot again, and Soap let his spent cock leak piss on his belly, on his sheets, and fuck, it actually felt good, the warm, comfortable stream of it through his still sensitive head. Ghost pushing down on his groin until he'd given every last drop.
God, he was fucked. God , he was so fucked up for Ghost.
Ghost leaned down, one knee on the bed, tongue licking a stripe up Soap's cheek through his mask. “Dirty, pathetic thing. You fuckin' stink. Smell like a whore.”
Ghost got up, and Soap was panicking, blindly, unable to grab. “Wait. Wait, I want–”
“Clean yourself up,” Ghost interrupted him. “ Thoroughly . Then you can come to me. Only then.”
Ghost flipped him over, his knife cut into the ropes, freed him.
Then he left.
—
He’d never taken such a swift shower in his fucking life. Keeping in mind Ghost’s words, still, though. Thoroughly . Soap scrubbed at his body, the places where he’d been used, getting all the come off himself, the spit from his own sex-stupid mouth. The dried piss. That last one made Soap feel some sort of messed up, an intense, lasting flush running through him at how readily he’d done that for Ghost.
Let it go for me.
Every single thing Ghost had said in his gruff rumble was replaying in Soap’s ears, over and over. Then you can come to me.
How could he not fixate?
Ghost’s voice did the same thing to him as a deep massage in an especially tender, painful place–hurt so fucking good.
Soap was already semi-hard, near-ready against the crease between thigh and hip, on and off the whole time he was finishing up, quickly washing himself again , just to be sure, even though it made him kinda sad to get rid of the stickiness of Ghost's spend.
He’d licked some of that up, after. He couldn’t help himself. He did it shamelessly, fingers swiping through, tongue lapping, lips sucking like it was sweet nectar.
Soap was so fully hard by the time he was dressing, knowing what was waiting for him, and not really knowing what was waiting for him, fuck.
Maybe he was about to get everything, and maybe he would get nothing. And maybe that was one of the things that drew him to Ghost so much. Ghost was everything he craved–rough, crude, unpredictable, confident, massive, big enough to overpower him .
Soap had seen the way Ghost caressed his rifle, his gun, the hilt of his knife, though. There was some sort of savage tenderness in there, somewhere.
The way Ghost grasped his arm sometimes when they navigated through danger, tight and reassuring.
Yeah, there was something there.
And Soap wanted it. For his .
He had to breathe real deep and slow to get through the halls without his erection slipping from the waistband of his joggers and completely betraying him.
Ghost’s door was unlocked.
Ghost was sitting on his bed, legs bent at the knee, spread, a new glass of whiskey in his hand, two ice cubes drifting through the dark liquid. Ghost sipped at it, mask bunched up, hitched on the bridge of his nose. Soap tried not to stare at the thick, jagged white keloids swiped, wildly, across his jaw, the side of his cheek. The remnants of a burn on the side of his mouth. Soap wanted to lick all of it in worship, appreciate the hell he’d been through.
Ghost was obviously waiting. So sure Soap would come right to him.
Didn’t look like he’d changed any of his clothes, didn’t change anything except his mask, the simple cotton revealing his dark eyes in a way that made Soap feel a little weak at the knees. He forgot himself in the open doorway.
“Jesus, Johnny, shut the fuckin' door,” impatiently scratched from Ghost’s throat.
The sound of the glass hitting Ghost's nightstand; Jesus, Mary , and Joseph , he was so goddamn aggressive with everything. Soap was surprised the delicate tumbler didn’t crack and shatter in his grip.
Yes, sir, he almost said. But he shut the door silently, and he stood there, not quite sure what was next. He wanted to get on the bed, he wanted to push Ghost into it and kiss his arrogant mouth.
“Come here.”
Soap had his knees on the bed in seconds, stopping at the edge of it, unsure how close Ghost meant.
“You scared of me, Johnny? Come here. ”
Ghost spread his legs wider, and Soap crawled over, settled between his legs, trying not to breathe so fucking hard, but he couldn't control how good it was to feel Ghost’s body heat. He still smelled like he hadn’t showered, and Soap already felt overwhelmed from how much space Ghost took up around him. “Didn't know you–”
“Shhh, you know, now.”
Ghost sat up better, and he tugged Soap closer to him by the waistband, immediately pulling his shirt up and over his head, already pushing his joggers down off his hips, apparently satisfied he didn't have any briefs on underneath from the slight smirk that tilted his scarred lips.
He groaned, yanking Soap forward with an arm around his back, the rough texture of his jacket’s zip, his denim clipping against Soap’s bare skin, making his eyes flutter a little.
Ghost put the whole front of his face into Soap’s stomach, breathed him in heavily, so close to where he was hard. “Mmm, that's so much better. All clean for me.”
Ghost had taken his gloves off, and his rough, calloused palms on Soap’s sore ass cheeks made him shiver.
“You wanna be mine.” It wasn't a question. The bastard.
Soap just nodded. Apparently, being with Ghost like this made him into a mute idiot. A mute, needy idiot that wanted nothing more than his Lt.’s approval.
“Good. You're not going to do any of that shit anymore.” Ghost had already decided this–without any of his input. Soap’s eyes darted down to the bed between them, self conscious at the moan that left him.
“ Look at me. I need to know you understand me,” Ghost dragged his gaze down with a thumb tip on his chin, just the tip, still strong enough to get his full attention. “You're not going to do that again, are you?”
“No. No, sir.” There it was. He couldn't stop it. Fuck, he killed people. He had men that looked up to him. He could defuse or build an explosive faster than anyone else in the history of the SAS. He wasn’t pitiful. But Ghost made him pitiful, and he didn’t really want to do anything about that. Wanted to give into it.
“Right. No, you're fucking not. Whatever you need, you’re going to come right here, Johnny. To me. You wanna be a whore? Be my whore.”
“S'all I want,” Soap slurred through the raw pleasure that was heating up his groin, tearing through his belly and his chest at the slight shake in Ghost’s voice. Was it jealousy?
Ghost grabbed the entire front of his face with his huge palm, using the hold to force him down, his back to the bed, so very naked, right in the middle of it. Like before, but his hands and vision were blissfully free. “Stay there.”
When Ghost got off the mattress, it creaked like a great burden had been lifted, and Soap let his head fall to the side, watched as Ghost got up, started unzipping his jacket, shouldering it off, throwing it to the side. He was taking rough breaths through his nose when he realized Ghost was getting naked, too.
Everything. That’s what he was getting.
His chest felt tight when Ghost shed every piece of clothing. All of it. Mask included.
Simon straddled him, trapped him underneath his all-encompassing body, and Soap had never been more ready to drown. He was so beautiful that Soap felt like breathing wasn’t even an option.
“Give me your tongue,” Ghost demanded, tipping his head back a little more with that demanding grip around his jaw. Soap groaned and slid his tongue out, mouth hanging open, vulnerable to whatever Ghost was going to do.
Ghost’s eyes flicked down to his lips, and they looked even hungrier, if that was possible, something burning in them that probably should’ve scared Soap, but it didn't. He stuck his tongue out more, closed his eyes, craning toward Ghost.
The tip of Ghost’s tongue met the tip of his, starting there, gliding up, licking, tasting, before he was pulling Soap’s tongue into his mouth, sucking at it, and Soap could feel his eyes roll back a little at how amazingly dirty that was, feeling Simon suck on his tongue like it was his dick, tasting the whiskey still lingering on his lips.
He didn’t complete the kiss, just let go, and then he was curling his body around every inch of Soap, cradling him, burying his face into his neck, scuffing his exposed, scruffy jaw there, pushing his nose into the crook of it, inhaling him.
Simon’s body was still slightly damp with old sweat, and he smelled strongly of the job he’d been on. Spices from a spice market. The warmth of the sun, gunpowder, and traces of dirt. Soap whimpered, and he didn’t think as he reached up and pulled Simon down by the hips, moaning so fucking loud when he felt the hardness between their legs brush together.
But Simon didn’t stop him, just ground his hips down, harder, his answering sound quiet in his throat; still there, though.
Simon was so gone when he looked at him again, and he was rubbing their bodies together like a man possessed, all that sweat slick soaked up by Soap’s clean skin.
Soap realized he was being marked with Simon’s scent. He couldn’t help the way he responded to that, all his base instincts kicking in. He growled, and he was pushing up against Simon, his forehead butting against Simon’s chest, trying to mark him back, but Simon was strong, and Simon was intent on what he was doing.
Simon growled back, louder than Soap, pushed him down into the bedsheets, easy, with a hand on his clavicle.
He sat up, leaning back on his haunches, looking out of his mind, like he hadn’t had a drink in years as he raked his eyes over Soap, still panting from the almost hostile assertion of ownership.
“You wanted to put your mouth to good use, sergeant?” Simon’s thighs opened up a little bit more, suggestive. “Go on.”
Soap was on him, licking, not between his legs, not yet–he needed to taste all of him. He licked a broad stripe up his chest, drinking at the sweat still held in the curls of his body hair, grazing one of his nipples, earning himself a full body shudder that he’d remember forever.
Simon’s fingers dug into his hair as he sucked at that nipple, made it hard in his mouth, between his teeth. A groan. Fuck, a full throated, wrecked sound, and he made a note of that in his head. His own body was so full of arousal, he just wanted to rut like a bitch against Simon’s substantial thigh as he sucked at his chest, a hand grasping at the side of his pec, kneading, feeling the soft layer of fat over the hard muscle.
“That's right, sweetheart. Ah, fuck.” Simon pulled him up onto his thigh, like he could read his thoughts.
Soap’s cock leaked precome all over the dusky hair on Simon's thigh, getting him nice and messy as he rocked forward and sucked like his life depended on it, thriving off of the sounds it dragged, forcefully, from Simon.
He licked his way all the way up the trail of sweat to Simon's neck, paid attention to the v there, followed his collarbone, right to his armpit, to the source of everything good, all that filthy masculine scent.
“Johnny–” Simon sounded genuinely surprised , and Soap grinned as he rested his nose there, whimpering at how good Simon’s musk was, his hips moving faster against his thigh, like he could get off to that smell alone. And maybe he could.
The reverent tip of his pink tongue dipped into all that delicious thick hair, and he suckled at it all, like he was being fed his last meal.
“ Goddamnit, Johnny,” Simon huffed, hand gripping his hair so, so tight. He ripped Soap away, had to, because Soap didn't want to leave. Simon held his face at a distance, right below his, looked down at him with furrowed eyebrows, almost like he was angry. But Soap knew better. He was violently aroused, equally matched by the rock hard erection that was still vaguely rubbing at Simon’s thigh, his hip.
“Get busy where I need ya, yeah?” Simon released his head with a slight shove, and Soap reluctantly climbed off Simon’s thigh, got his face down next to it instead, catching a glimpse of the way his precome glistened where he’d been sitting. “Slobber on it real good.”
Sounded like an order, like something Simon would bark at him through comms. Soap shivered and grasped the base of Simon, so thankful to be touching him, so thankful to get his mouth on him, stroking him a couple times, pulling his foreskin down, and he could feel how sensitive that was for him, so he tongued at it, then sucked him inside, as far down as he could go. He was experienced, and he made that very clear.
He got lost in it, easily, drunk on the taste, on the feel of finally having his lieutenant at his mouth’s mercy, buried in his throat, Simon claiming that throat as he pushed his hips up a few times, running his hand through his hair, using him lazily, that rumbling sound he made when he was pleased vibrating through Soap’s ears, making him so compliant.
When he popped his mouth off, it was only so he could get at those heavy balls, sucking one at a time into his mouth, hand still working Simon’s dick.
And then Simon was pulling him up, even though Soap could tell he was getting close.
“You’re too fuckin’ good at that.”
“Aye? You like it?” Soap asked, his smile wild and smug as he looked at Simon’s face thoroughly, taking it all in. He had a flush on his cheeks, and that was the goddamn hottest thing Soap had ever seen.
Simon just grunted, and Soap knew it was jealousy, then. Jealousy over whoever had felt his mouth like that before.
“Get up here. In my lap.” Simon was still crouched, upright, and he made it very clear he was staying just like that, Soap’s heart in his throat and his dick twitching as he thought about the possibility of riding him like that, but he knew it was wishful thinking that he’d get to set the pace, whether he was over or under Simon. He didn’t really want to, anyway.
When Soap didn’t comply fast enough, Simon dragged him up onto his sturdy thighs, his position completely unwavering, despite the strength it took to keep Soap seated on him like that.
“You need prep?”
“No, just fuck me. C'mon.” Brave, honestly, that. And stupid. The words had left his mouth before he really thought about the consequences, but he didn’t take them back. He was too impatient for Simon to lay claim to his insides. Soap bucked a little, but Simon calmed him with a hand at his flank and his soothing words vibrating from his diaphragm right into Soap's ear.
“I’ll fuck you when I’m good ‘n ready, sweetheart.” Simon got himself slick with some more spit, and shit, Soap knew it was going to hurt. There wasn't enough spit in the world that'd make that go easier, and he was so fucking daft, not requesting any prep.
He still lifted himself up, though, eagerly.
Simon brushed the head of his cock against Soap’s hole, teasing him there, smearing his saliva around, stretching it a little with the tip of him, “This is mine ,” he practically snarled. “Tell me.”
“‘S’all yours. Do whatever you want wit’ it, Lt.”
“Bloody hell. Say it again.” Simon's cockhead prodded at him more, slipped in more.
“Do whatever–”
“ No . Tell me it's mine ,” Simon snapped at him as he pushed all the way inside, Soap letting out a bruised yell, panting through his nose at how fucking off his head he was.
“ Yours ,” he choked out through the pain, made worse by how sore he was from use already, “Just yours,” he said, as Simon broke him for anything else.
“This is where you belong, Johnny.” Simon was kind enough to still inside him, letting him get used to the ungodly stretch, little, gentle pushes up inside him to work him open, and when the pain started melting away, yeah. Yeah, Soap saw God.
“Jesus, Simon ,” Soap had to muffle himself against Simon's neck, busying his mouth with a harsh bite to his collarbone, busying it with more sucking, trying to keep himself from crying at how good Simon fucking up into him felt, how full he felt, how much he didn't need anything else as long as he lived, as long as he could have this .
“S’right, say my name.”
Soap said it, couldn't stop saying it as a prayer on every thrust, meeting each of them with his own hips, falling into a good rhythm, a real fucking good one.
Simon shifted them, leaning back on the bed with one hand supporting his weight in the sheets, getting on his heels so he could get a better angle, so he could fuck Soap up real good, so deep, didn't even pull out much, just intentionally grinding shallow, into that real nice spot, over and over, and Soap was going to come so hard. “ Simon . Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm gunna–”
The orgasm trembled through him, and his moan was long, stuttered through his unsteady breaths, and he could feel sweat gathering at his hairline at just how flushed his whole body got.
Simon followed him with hands so heavy on his hip bones that he'd have marks there later. The noise he made was the most uncontrolled thing Soap had ever heard from him, and somehow, he managed to open his glazed blue eyes in time to catch the expression on his face–lost, like he was suffering.
Soap savored the warm, wet feeling of come that was leaking onto his thighs from around where Simon was still buried inside him.
Yeah, that's where Simon's come should be. Right there .
He was jerked out of his daze when Simon was suddenly supporting his lower back with his hands, lifting him up and laying him down, oh so carefully, uncharacteristically careful, so he could pull out and climb off the bed, away somewhere. Soap was too limbless to find out where.
He came back, though, and Soap felt the attention of a towel on his abdomen before that welcome weight was joining his again, body stretching out to flick the lamp off, the movement putting Soap at the lower half of his body.
Simon's hand pet through his hair, and Soap was content to make a new home there, where he was clutching at Simon's knee, his face tucking in against Simon's calf, his bruised lips savoring the feeling of soft blonde hair brushing over them. He kissed him there, once, and when Simon answered the action with a deep, pleased sound in his chest, Soap felt some great thing shift inside of him, something he couldn't even describe.
This was all he needed. To be at the pleasure of his Lt. “Thank you,” his tone so grateful, so happy .
Another primally satisfied sound groaned into the silence of the dim room.
“Tha’s a good lad. Now, get a bit of sleep. I'm going to need you again in a little while. Gunna rail you unconscious, Johnny boy.”
Soap couldn’t fucking wait. He needed it like oxygen.