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Johnny isn't sure how exactly they got to his flat. They had been at the bar— drinking, laughing, sitting a little too close. And then— then there was a tongue twisting with his. A strong, calloused hand squeezing him through his jeans, and a husky whisper in his ear telling him to move it.

The air outside of the bar was frigid as fall weather set in, but it hadn't been sobering. Not when Ghost was pressed hotly to his side, arm around his shoulder.

“I'll wrangle him home,” Ghost had said to Price. "Lad's had too much to drink. Threw up in the bloody bathroom.” Price had waved them off. And then—

And then they were here. Pressed against Soap’s front door with Simon trying to eat his fucking face. It seemed as if the man had no intention of getting to the bedroom, perfectly happy to suck face in the entryway. Simon shifted, there were hands on his hips and suddenly—

Johnny moaned, high and needy, as a thick thigh split his own. It put a delicious pressure on his aching cock, rubbing him just right through his jeans. He could feel Simon's length against his own thigh, tucked down into a pant leg and straining for freedom.

They were really doing this. Humping like virginal teenagers. And somehow, Soap’s never been harder.

Those deliciously broad hands on his hips pulled him forward before letting gravity drag his pelvis back down into the wood of his front door. Soap whined, an ear splitting sound that could be from some mutt. It was just a bit of friction, two layers of denim between them, and yet Soap was fucking dying for it. A horny teenage boy getting his first taste of pleasure. And Ghost, god. The way he manhandled him, like it was nothing? Like Soap wasn't a big, hefty man himself? It made him leak, a wet spot already forming at the front of his trousers.

He was going to cum like this, he realized as Ghost fucked him along his thigh once again. He was going to cum in his pants like a bloody teenager and he was going to like it.

“Ghost,” he moaned weakly, hands grasping for the lapel of the man's jacket. “Ghost, m'gonna—”

“Do it,” Ghost growled into his ear. His hips humped up into Soap's thigh at the same time Ghost pulled Soap up— and he was a goner. He yelped, pleasure bursting low in his belly so rapidly it nearly made him nauseous. His briefs were soaked, cock cradled in a bath of its own cum, trapped inside unforgiving denim.

Ghost was still going. Still humping up into Soap's thigh until— he shuddered in Soap’s hold with a low groan. Johnny could feel the wet spot between them growing, feel the minute jumps in Ghost's cock as he, too, came his fucking brains out.

Soap laughed, suddenly, overcome with the need to giggle like a teenage girl. “We— we never even got our shoes off.”

Ghost bit his neck, grumbling into the skin like a wounded mutt. “Shouldn't look so bloody good when you cum in yer pants, then.”

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Ghost was not a man with a lot of shame— or any, for that matter. What the military hadn't driven out of him, Mexico had. He'd learned that caring what other people thought was a useless venture. It didn't affect him— not truly. He knew his worth, what he was capable of. And at the end of the day his expertise was irreplaceable.

So, when something got under his skin, filled out his cock nice and thick until it was straining to escape the tight clutch of his jeans— he didn't care. He didn't take care of it, he didn't try to hide it. He went about business as normal. If he drew a few disbelieving stares at the sheer length of his cock along his thigh, what did he care? His eyes were on his head, not his cock. If somebody wanted to talk, they could look up at him just fine.

Price and Gaz had grown used to this behavior. They might tease or crack a joke here and there, but they learned to ignore the elephant in the room. Kept their gazes far from the girthy, pulsing length that was nearly as long as the Lieutenant's thigh. Johnny, though? Oh that poor, sweet boy couldn't take his eyes off of it when Ghost entered the room. He was a pup with a bone, truly. A drooling, eager little mutt who couldn't hide his interest.

And maybe Ghost was a cruel man. Someone who took pleasure in watching people crumble to pieces before him. Soap wasn't special in his ogling, his inability to part from Ghost's prevalent erections. He was special in how close he was to Ghost, how close he could get. How close Ghost let him get. So he hovered, and he watched the Sergeant’s carefully molded self control slip day by day as Ghost sought out his company.

It comes to a head early in the morning. Ghost had been enjoying a mug of tea on the rec room couch, dressed for the day and cock hard and leaking against his thigh. Soap had stumbled in after a rough night, rubbing at his eyes and mumbling under his breath. He had turned towards the coffee machine, but he paused, made eye contact with Ghost. Or rather, with Ghost’s situation.

“Sir,” Johnny choked, eyes wide, cheeks red. He looked eager— more than usual. As if a lack of sleep had dulled his already weak guard.

“Johnny,” Ghost rumbled back, spreading his legs a little wider just to see the Sergeant gulp.

Soap was quick in his approach. He did not hesitate to sink to his knees before Ghost, either. Here, where any early riser could walk in and see him. His hands trembled uselessly between his own thighs, hiding a budding erection of his own.

“Sir, I need—” Ghost raised a brow as Soap cut himself off with a whine. He was so red that Ghost might compare him to a tomato. “Let me suck you off, Sir, please.”

Soap was an eager pup at his feet, whining and wriggling and batting his big blue eyes at him. If Ghost was a lesser man, he would cave to such an offer immediately. He had every intention of taking it, of course, but he couldn't let Soap think he could be handed everything he wanted. He wouldn't spoil the brat.

“And why should I allow you, mutt?”

Soap drew back at the questioning, confusion muddling his gaze. Clearly, he hadn't expected an interrogation. He was a pretty little thing and he knew it. He was used to getting handed what he wanted.

“I said—”

Soap cut him off with a whine, scratching at the taught fabric over his thighs. “Because I can make you feel good? My throat is tight, and— and—”

“Bark for it.”

Soap’s face was so red hot that he was beginning to sweat. It lined his forehead and the ridge of his brows, coming to rest on his upper lip. But he had already debased himself. Already fallen to his knees to beg for a taste of the Lieutenant's girthy cock. How far would he go? Ghost was willing to bet that it was pretty damn far.

“Yip,” came quietly from the floor. Hushed and embarrassed. Pathetic.

“Louder.”

“Yip!” Barely a speaking tone. It wasn't good enough. Soap didn't mean it.

“I said louder.”

“Yip! Yip! Please, Sir— Yip!”

Good puppy,” Ghost chuckled. “Do you drool like a mutt too?”

“I can!” Soap said, far too eager for his station. “If that's what you want.”

Ghost's boot fit well between Soap’s thighs, right over his aching little puppy cock. Soap made a questioning sound before he was suddenly flat on his back, pushed over by the toe of Ghost's boot.

“You better make it worth my while, mutt. Or I'll take you to Price for attempting to consort with a senior officer.”

Soap pulled himself up quickly, shaking off the humiliation of being treated like a dog at his superior's feet. “Yes, Sir! Yip!”

Soap wasted little time crawling up between Ghost's legs to get at his zipper. Mercifully, he let the boy undo the button with his hands but he tutted when he reached for the zipper.

“Dogs don't use their paws, do they?”

If Soap had little puppy ears, they would be drooping, pinned back to his head. Reluctantly, he lowered his hands and leaned forward, mouth agape, to grab the small metal handle of the zipper with his teeth. He tugged on it, needing a few pulls to get it down far enough to be of any use.

Again, Ghost showed mercy by fishing his leaking cock out from his pant leg— hard and heavy as it drooped forward from its own weight. As much as he'd like to see Soap try with nothing but his mouth, he didn't fancy walking back to his quarters with a lapful of slobber.

Soap was quick to get his mouth on it, giving the blunt head eager little kitten licks. Ghost slaps his cock across the boy's lips a few times. He likes the way precum sticks to the pouty things in thin strings— like lipgloss.

“Well?” Ghost goads. “It's not gonna suck itself.”

Soap dives in, hands shaking where they grip his own thighs. He sucks in the head of Ghost's cock with ease, tonguing at his frenulum and suckling every drop of pre he could get. Ghost sighs and leans back into the cushions, arm thrown back over the couch. He idly pets over Soap’s scalp as he presses himself further and further down the girthy length— so much like a dog after a juicy bone. Ghost rolls his hips up into Johnny's mouth, makes him gag on it. The man pulls back with a heaving gasp, coughing wetly into his curled fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, clearly unused to sucking such a beast of a cock. But Ghost isn't a man with a lot of patience. He grips Soap by his stupid warhawk and drags his face back into his lap. Thankfully Soap gets the message, and he's throating him soon enough.

Ghost's groan covers up the sound of the door creaking open, someone finally come to get their morning cup of joe. Ghost grips Soap’s hair harder, fucks up into his tight little fuckhole of a throat. The little mutt is good, he'll give him that.

“Good morning?” Price's voice echoes from the kitchenette.

Ghost grunts. “Mutt begged for it. Needed to shut him up.”

Soap chokes, but Ghost keeps fucking up into his mouth, mot allowing a second to breathe. The boy is red in the face, tears streaming down his puffy cheeks. He's got snot and drool leaking from him in thick, nasty strings, wetting Ghost’s crotch.

Price hums as Soap retches, hands tapping desperately at Ghost's thigh. Still, Simon doesn't stop. He buries himself to the hilt again and again, watching as Soap's eyes get hazier from the lack of oxygen. Right before Soap goes limp, Ghost pulls out and jerks himself fast and hard. He cums over that wrecked expression as Soap gasps for air like a dying man.

“Good puppy,” Ghost praises mockingly. “Go wash up. You look disgusting.” Soap nods and moves to get up, and part of Ghost wants to tell him that dogs don't walk on two legs. He stays his tongue, however. He'd save that for another day.

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Ghost was not typical in the bedroom. He liked pain, he liked unusual play, he liked turning Johnny into a shaking, crying mess. His favorite way to do that was with his hands in whatever fashion he could manage. Bruises around his neck, friction burns on his cock, scabs along his arms.

Soap didn't often have a choice. Whatever Ghost wanted, he did, regardless of Soap's enjoyment. Which isn't to say it was all bad. The inability to choose, to escape, is what Soap liked about their dynamic. He liked the helplessness, the feeling of being used.

So, even tied up and begging Ghost to stop, that he couldn't do it— part of him was enjoying himself.

Ghost, of course, had tuned Soap out ages ago. His body could physically do it. He'd been working the lad over with the biggest sounding rods they'd had for days, and had a thick catheter in for the rest of the time. Soap's body was as prepared as it was going to get. Urethra puffy and agitated, stretched out far past its usual limits. A beautiful sight to behold— for Ghost, anyway. Soap just wanted to be able to piss normally again.

“Ghost… Ghost I cannae do it,” Soap whined. Ghost was occupied with shoving lube down his urethra with their biggest sounding rod— nearly as big as one of Soap’s fingers. Simon's were bigger, though. Thick and calloused with decades spent behind a trigger. Ghost, of course, paid him no mind. He had been deadset on this little idea of his since he dreamt it up on sex-filled night.

He had tried it then— that night. Had tried so hard to stick a finger down Soap's urethra that Soap began bleeding and came a fountain of it later that night. But no matter how hard he pushed and Soap screamed, his urethra wasn't trained enough. Was too small, had too little give. So Soap was allowed to heal, and then the training began. Soap hadn't left the house all week, too liable to piss himself with the catheter Ghost insisted on— to keep him open, always. For hours Ghost would play with his cock, soft and hard. Working their way up the growing collection of sounding rods until even the biggest catheter they could find was loose in him.

Soap didn't like sounding. It made him piss funny and it burned like hell. It also didn't feel particularly stunning. It felt more like pissing in reverse than a handy. But Ghost loved seeing how wrecked his cock could look, how inflamed his urethra could get, so he played with it often.

“Hush,” Ghost finally spoke. “You're going to take it. Or do you want another week with the catheter?” Soap was going to take it either way— but how much more could he put up with? 

Ghost hummed at Soap’s lack of response. A sort of self-satisfied sound that had Soap bristling, bound and unable to move as he was. The wooden chair creaked ominously as Soap’s shoulders tensed.

Ghost spend another long, quiet moment fucking the warmed metal rod in and out of Soap’s inflamed urethra. Appearing mesmerized by the simple motions. Soap could hardly feel it, if he was honest. He went numb to the constant play a couple days back.

Eventually, Ghost was satisfied with his work and drew back. His cock felt oddly empty once the rod was removed, and part of him wished for it back if only so that there was no room for Ghost to do what he wanted. He was not so lucky.

Soap squirmed as Ghost's index finger grew closer and closer to his weeping urethra. His skin was slicked with lube and ready to delve into one of the most intimate holes Soap had. But Soap was scared. Scared of the pain, the stretch. Scared that he'd never be able to piss normally again.

Still, Ghost didn't care.

“Easy, Johnny,” he grumbled as Soap's thighs tensed and tried to close, kept in place by the ropes around his calves. There was no escape, no stopping this.

Soap cried out weakly as Ghost put pressure on his puffy slit. It stung a little, even the slight breach of the very tip of his finger. There was no way he could—

“No!” Soap sobbed. “No! Stop stop stop!”

But Ghost kept going. Kept pressing in and down and— and—

Soap screamed as Ghost's finger was suddenly in him. It burned more than their biggest rod. Thick and calloused and too much for Soap to handle. The sharp pain triggered an orgasm from Soap, one borne of misplaced fear. He squirted hot strings of white and a few drops of blood around Ghost's finger— but most of it was kept inside. Kept locked inside of his cock to come drooling out slowly later. He'd be pissing cum for hours.

Ghost cooed lowly at him as he sobbed. It hurt so bad— too sensitive, too used, from a week of constant play. But Ghost had yet to have his fun, and his finger drew up inch by agonizing inch. Soap stretched forward to bury his head in Ghost's shoulder as his finger shot down rapidly once more. Fucking in and out of Soap’s sore cock like it was any other hole. Like it was made for it. Like Soap wasn't muffling screams into Ghost's neck.

There was a fucking finger in his cock, and Ghost seemed to have no intention of removing it any time soon.

Johnny was going to pass out. He was sure of it.

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Soap had been having dreams ever since he moved into his grandparents old farm house. The area itself was peaceful. He had a couple cows to take care of, some chickens— just enough busywork to keep him occupied during the days. But at night, strange beings entered his dreams. Giant beings with grey skin and dark scales. Piercing yellow eyes with slitted pupils, and long reptilian tails. They poked and prodded at him, injecting him with all manner of liquids. They dove deep into every hole he had— long tubed down his throat, his ass, his pussy. He always awoke in his bed when his alarm went off at six AM sharp. The dreams felt more real than the sun on his skin and the grass between his toes— but they were just dreams.

There's one creature in particular that likes to visit his dreams. A mighty, massive being with hands that wrap around his waist with ease. He gets more personal than the others. Always poking and prodding with big black claws and a curious tongue. On one memorable night, Soap recalls being stretched open upon the largest cock he'd ever seen. It was a great big, writhing tentacle. The pink, slick flesh had buried itself in his cunt and hadn't stopped until the creature was sheathed completely. He remembers feeling it in his throat, too deep to be physically possible. Such was the reality of dreams. The skull-like pattern of its face had stared down at him as it rocked its hips in and out, in and out, moving his entire body upon the cold metal table. He woke up like any other day, sore and exhausted.

Soap's day starts off like any other. Gasping for breath, cunt sore and limbs aching— leftovers from a long night spent tossing and turning, imagining such vivid, awful things. He swings himself out of his rumpled sheets and pads towards the bathroom. He sees himself in the mirror, pudgy belly peaking over the lip of his panties. He'd gained a bit of weight ever since he moved in. He likened it to the stress of his dreams and getting used to a new environment. He reaches for his toothbrush at the same time an awful cramp shoots through his belly and down his legs. His hands shoot toward his belly as he yelps, legs squeezing together as it aches.

Another wave of agony shoots through him, bringing him to his knees. It felt like something was clawing at his insides, begging to be let out. It wasn't true, of course— he'd been celibate for over a year, not quite feeling like getting to know the local townsfolk. The pain was real, however. Very real.

He ends up on his side, clutching his belly. He knows he should call someone, probably an ambulance. But he was in too much pain to do anything but curl up and cry. He couldn't move, couldn't get to the phone. He'd have to wait until it subsided. However long that might be. He whimpers as his cunt spasms, cramps bringing his legs together in an attempt to lessen the agony coursing through him. He doesn't know what brought on this sudden bout of white hot fire. All he knows is that he feels like he's dying.

There's a sudden wetness between his legs that startles him. A clear liquid poured out of his cunt, soaking his panties and the tile floor beneath it. Clear gives way to light pink, and then to the unmistakable red of blood. With great difficulty, he manages to get his panties off to look at his cunt. The cramps in his belly have picked up into a rhythmic pulsing and he swears— swears— he can see a tiny hand pressing up through the skin. On instinct, the cramps have him pushing, contracting his pelvic muscles. He feels something shift inside him and then—

He screams as something comes out of him. Covered in a gory mess of tissue and blood. It claws its way out of him, little black claws scuttling over the tile. It's got big yellow eyes with slitted pupils, a reptilian tail poking out from its behind, and dark patches of scales beginning to form over its gray skin.

Soap passes out to the distinctive sound of whirring from the grain fields, and a skull-like visage passing through his bathroom door.

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Soap doesn't know what he expected when Ghost offered to stitch up his shoulder an hour into their drive into the Mexican wilderness. He's half delirious with blood loss and an adrenaline crash when he gives the okay. Ghost wrangles him into the bed of the truck so they have ample room to move. Ghost uses a flashlight from his kit to chase away the darkness of the night. It's the first time Soap has really looked at his shoulder. It's a nasty wound, still sluggishly bleeding and looking a little green around the edges. Bits of his shirt are stuck to it, and he knows it's gonna hurt like a bitch to get it off.

Ghost isn't gentle in his movements when he takes a scalpel from his medkit and slices Soap's shirt open. Gloved— filthy— fingers rip bits of stuck fabric out of the wound and Soap has to bite his tongue in order to not scream. Predictably, the bleeding starts up again and Ghost dabs at it with a bit of gauze. He carelessly dumps a tube of peroxide into the open wound and this time, Soap has to muffle his scream with his uninjured hand. Ghost, still, pays him no mind. He's too busy poking and prodding at the bubbling edges of the bullet hole.

“Gotta lot of debris in here,” Ghost says, breaking the silence. “Can't stitch it up like this.

“Couldn't exactly mind it while runnin’ fer me life,” Soap pants. His shoulder fucking hurts.

“Gonna have to dig it out, Johnny,” Ghost presses. “You think you can handle it?”

No, Soap wants to say. No he can't handle it, he's barely handling breathing at the moment. But training has him nodding and shoving his own glove between his teeth.

Ghost doesn't give him any warning before there's a finger in his shoulder and Soap is screaming. He can feel ever minute movement of it, digging deeper into wounded flesh, fucking in and out of the hole as Ghost scrapes god knows what out of it. Ghost's finger dives in and drags back out, over and over again. Part of Soap thinks that there can't be that much junk in him, but Ghost is the one who can see, not Soap. Soap who's vision has gone all blurry from desperate tears and woozy from the agony of having his shoulder finger fucked.

Soap slumps into Ghost's larger frame. It likely inhibits what Ghost can see, but the Lieutenant doesn't reprimand him for it. He just continues the in and out, in and out, as Soap drifts on the edge of consciousness. At one point, his pained shouts turn into weak little moans, too worn out to do anything more. The sounds seem to encourage Ghost, who picks up the pace of his finger. He digs deeper and deeper into Soap's muscle, rubbing at all sides of it. He swirls his finger around the edges of the wound before pressing back in, petting at the slick tissue.

Soap zones out, lost to the sensation. It becomes all he knows. He doesn't know how long they sit there in the dead of night, Soap moaning like a whore as his kind Lieutenant takes care of him. But it's enough that, when Ghost finally shifts, draws his finger away, he's woozy. He struggles to hold his own head up as Ghost moves to rip open a prepackaged needle and thread. The curved needle is a familiar sight, and he doesn't even flinch as Ghost presses it though his torn skin and draws the thread through. He sits still like a good little soldier as Ghost stitches him up roughly— good enough to keep him alive. He presses gauze into it after, and tapes it to him with the roll of medical tape stuffed into his kit.

“Good lad,” Ghost praises.

Soap doesn't think on the way it threatens to make his cock chub up.

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There's something hollow in Soap's chest as Ghost's broad hands pet down his flanks. The stench of cheap bourbon is thick between them, filling Soap's senses and leaving his head spinning. There's a particular disgust that bubbles within him as masked lips brush over his jaw, seeking contact.

"I'm not interested," Soap murmurs. His hands bat at Ghost's sturdy chest but he's all bark and no bite. He doesn't fight Ghost when he shoves him further into the alleyway behind the pub. The cigarette they had been sharing sits abandoned on the ground beside them, burning up with no one to huff at it.

It's always like this, when Ghost drinks. Suddenly fraternization is the last thing on his mind. There's no staunch refusal of Soap's feelings, his desperate puppy love. Instead, Ghost is all over him. It makes his head spin and he's too weak of a man to truly refuse. He hates himself after. Feels filthy and used like a two cent whore. But Ghost is demanding, overwhelming. He can't help but lick the taste of cigarette ash from Ghost's tongue as he lifts his mask.

Soap moans into the kiss, chapped lips eating him alive. It's all he can do to follow their hurried movements, tongues twining in the space between them. Drool slinks down Johnny’s chin and Ghost follows it, licking its trail up. Their stubble brushes, friction burning, and it's the most intoxicating thing Soap has ever felt.

His head hits the brick behind him with a painful thump as Ghost drags him into another forceful kiss. He bites at Soap’s lower lip and growls, hands gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises. Soap will look at the fingerprints left behind in the morning and hate himself for them. Ghost won't look his direction until he's drunk again, and Soap will hang off of his every word like a lost puppy.

"Ghost," Soap tries again, a pitiful attempt at gaining the man's attention.

"Shut up, Johnny," Simon grumbles. His fingers are trailing up Soap's abdomen, hiking up his shirt as he goes. His fingers are cold on his warm nipples, and Soap jerks into the contact.  Ghost rubs cruelly, pinching the rosy nubs just to hear Soap squeal like a pig.

"Hurry up," Soap says this time. Not "no." Not "stop." Hurry up. Because Price and Gaz would be looking for them soon. It only takes so long to smoke a cig.

Ghost grunts as he abandons Soap’s chest. His hands wrangle with their jeans instead, popping them open to release their aching cocks. Because no amount of self loathing is ever enough when it comes to Ghost. He wants the man so desperately that the honey-warm shade of his eyes became his favorite color. It's those same eyes he looks into as Ghost brings their cocks together. His hand is big enough to engulf them both, and he spits on them to slick them. It shouldn't make Soap hot under the collar. Ghost is a selfish man. A cruel, selfish man who uses Soap like he's a cheap whore and not head over heels in love with him.

Ghost's hand feels like heaven as he strokes over them. It shouldn't feel as good as it does. Its a rough handy in a back alley— but fuck. He hasn't had Ghost in a month. Between training and running recon for Laswell, it's been too long. Or maybe not long enough. Soap is the whore that keeps crawling back, keeps letting Ghost use him. Maybe it's his fault for never saying no properly. Maybe it's Ghost's for never listening. He's always telling Gaz that Ghost is trying his best. He's not sure if he says it to convince Gaz or himself. Ghost is a lonely, broken man. He's got jagged edges of a misshapen personality. Too much trauma to ever be normal. And Soap loves to cut himself on the broken glass— the edges of a man who had never quite been whole.

So Soap moans into Ghost's mouth and cants his hips up. He grinds into every motion of Ghost’s hand, fucks himself on his monsterous cock. If they had the time, Ghost would be inside him, ruining him. But they don't. It's just a quickie to tide Ghost's drunken self over until they can get back to base. Then Soap will say no. That he's too tired, he's not in the mood. And Ghost will kiss him anyway. And Soap will give in, give up his body like he won't hate himself for it as soon as Ghost stumbles out of his room, sex drunk and satisfied. Because he's Ghost's favorite fleshlight, and Soap will never really push him away.

Soap cums with a grunt, painting Ghost's fist in sticky strings of white. Ghost licks into his mouth like a man starved, chasing the taste of shitty pub fries and tequila. He strokes over them both, bringing Soap well past overstimulation, before he finally cums. He moans deep and raspy into Soap's mouth as he does. Fucks his hips up as he rides out the aftershocks. He makes Soap lick his hand clean. Lick every ounce of sticky white spunk up. He hates it but he does it, because he knows Ghost will otherwise wipe it on his shirt and make him sit in the pub with a giant cumstain on his front. So he cleans Ghost's hand with his tongue, recoiling at the taste. Neither of them drink enough water for it to be anything but a thick, salty mess.

"Good boy," Ghost grunts once he's satisfied. He pats Soap’s cheek patronizingly, spit slick and sticky. He stumbles his way back into the pub as another patron staggers out, looking for a quick smoke. Soap quickly puts his cock away before the patron can see, stomps on the pitiful remains of their forgotten cigarette, and follows Ghost. He feels used. And he knows he'll be used again before the night is over. It's the curse he brings on himself. Too doe-eyed to say no to the man he wishes he could have more than anything. Ghost only wants him when he's wasted.

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Soap will admit that she was kind of a bad driver. She liked going too fast too soon, and she wasn't as aware of her surroundings as she could be. She runs a lot of stop signs on back roads, going far too fast for her own good. She likes taking backroads because there's hardly any police officers to flag her down and write her a ticket. She isn't always a lucky girl, though.

Her car rolls to a stop on the side of the road, embarrassment tinting her cheeks pink. She hears the breaks of the police car behind her, and then the slamming of the hefty door. She rolls her window down just as the ox of a man appears in her peripherals. He's got slicked back blonde hair, a cleft lip, and a scar under his left eye. He's very handsome with his strong jaw and bold brows, and Soap feels a little flutter in her tummy as he leans down to address her.

"Do you know why I pulled you over, Ma'am?" He asks. His voice is deep and gravelly, with a bit of a drawl.

"Yes, Sir," she flushes. She breaks eye contact to look at her hands in her lap, steering wheel mocking her inability to drive slowly. "I wasn't paying attention and ran the stop sign."

"You did more than that, little missy. Do you know how fast you were going?"

"No, Sir," she lies. She was going sixty in a forty. She knows that much. But she tends to get off easier when she plays dumb, so she lies plainly.

"You were twenty over the speed limit. That's enough for a ticket."

"Oh no," she whines. She looks over at the officer once more, her best pleading face on. Pouty lips, sad eyes— the works. "I didn't realize! It felt like forty!"

"Youre in big trouble, little miss," Ghost points out. He waves his little notebook, all her infractions written out.

"Is there anything I can do?" She begs. Her parents would kill her if she got another ticket before senior year closed out. She'd already gotten three during the first semester.

The man looks around, like he's searching for something. Satisfied, he turns back to Soap. His bulky arms rest on the window sill as he opens his mouth to speak again. Soap wants to reach out and touch him, see if all those muscles are real.

"There's one thing you can do," he reveals. His expression is sly as he says it— eyes dark and brimming with something nefarious. "Off the record."

"Anything, Sir!" She pleads. She's desperate not to bring home another ticket to her parents. She's a cute little thing and she knows it, but she can only talk her way out of so much before karma catches up to her.

"Why don't you open this door for me and face me?"

Dutifully, once the man steps out of the way, she swings open her car door and sits with her back to the center console. Her flats just barely touch the rough pavement below. She feels a bit exposed like this, waiting to be instructed. Legs only covered by her miniskirt, a thin tank top covering her perky breasts.

The officer appears in her view again, seeming so much larger as he stands tall before her. He's definitely over six feet, all thick muscle and waiting strength.

Soap flushes as calloused hands reach for his fly, undoing it with a damning little zip. She'd never sucked dick before, regardless of how much her idiot boyfriend wanted her to. She'd never seen the appeal— especially when it would ruin her makeup. But, the man doesn't step any closer once he fishes his cock out. It's half hard and long. Soap swears it's as long as her thigh. It's got a ruddy head that peaks ever so slightly out of his foreskin, and Soap is scared. Her boyfriend was tiny compared to this monster. And she was supposed to fit that in her mouth?

The first splash of something wet and warm on her tits makes her jump. It takes her a good ten seconds for her brain to boot up and realize what was happening. The officer was pissing on her. Hot, acrid urine covering her white tank top and revealing her rosy nipples. He aims lower once he's satisfied that her chest is covered. That powerful stream aims at her crotch, soaking her pretty pussy through her thong. She can feel the stream on her clit, targeting it almost. She lets out a little squeak as the feeling has her dripping. 

He aims for her face next, making sure to get her makeup dripping. She squeezes her eyes shut as the first splash hits her cheek, and tries not to taste it as it drips past her lips and into her mouth. She can taste the ammonia and the salt— it's a vile combination.

The stream tapers out over her lips, falling short and splashing the ground. She finally opens her eyes, just to be met with the smug expression of a very satisfied man. She blinks stupidly up at him and he grins. He steps forward to pat her shoulder, thumb grazing a sensitive nipple. "Just doing my job," he sings. Soap nods, and then he's gone. Back in his car and pulling away from the scene.

Soap has to drive home like this. She prays her parents aren't back yet. How would she explain the reek of fresh urine?

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Ghost prided himself on never being caught. On being one of the few sick sons of bitches to know what death felt like around his cock. He picked up pretty, young things off the street. Tied ‘em up. Brought ‘em home. Fucked them stupid while they begged and pleaded for their lives. “Please!” they'd cry. “No more!” The younger ones would beg for their virginity back. Some even cried for their mommies.

Soap was a pretty young thing. He'd been trying to haggle his way into a club. All alone, no one to vouch for him. In top-short shorts and a pretty mesh top that showed off far too much of his young body. Ghost had swooped in, his savior in a greasy hoodie.

“He's with me,” Ghost assured the unimpressed bouncer. And, with a heaving sigh, they were allowed in.

Soap thanked him, asked if there was anything he could do for Ghost. He smiled and laughed. Told the boy to let Ghost buy him a drink. And if Soap was putty in his arms by the time the glass was empty? Well. Let's just call it luck.

Soap was easy to drag home. A slight thing who looked as drunk as a human could possibly be. Red-faced and slurring his words. By this time, most were afraid, used their meager faculties to pull away, bat at his hands. And perhaps it should have been his first clue— how easily soap gave into wherever Ghost pulled him. Down alleys and crowded streets they roamed, and not once did Soap reach out for help, try and lose him in the crowd.

By the time they had finally gotten to Ghost's place, Soap had sobered up some. His breathing was quicker, his gait more steady. He leaned further into Ghost, too, nuzzling under his jaw like a content cat. Tying him up was even easier. Normally, this is where the fight began. Victims begging and clawing at every available surface for even the smallest hope of escape. Not Soap, though. No. Soap held his limbs out for Ghost, still as could be as Ghost secured knot after knot of rope around him, ensuring there was no possibility of escape.

And still, after being drugged, taken away from the public, and tied up like a prisoner— the boy smiled dopily, happy as could be. Ghost sneered as Soap giggled softly. He was high as a kite, sure, but he wanted fear. Needed the terror of realization upon his victim's face. The dawning horror that this would be their last moments alive.

Soap didn't fuss as Ghost cut him out of his skimpy little outfit. In fact, he purred as the sharp tip of the blade trailed down his abdomen. Ghost tugged the scraps of fabric away, revealing a cute little cocklet and a winking hole. The boy's cock was small, no more than a couple inches and rock fucking hard— leaking at the tip. His hole was pretty and pink, fluttering with every minute movement Ghost made.

Angry, Ghost ripped his own pants off. His cock was hard and aching, purpled at the head from the anticipation of a pretty young thing to fuck and kill. He wastes no time in pushing the kid over and lining his cock up with his unprepared hole. He sinks in with a grunt, tight walls doing their best to force him out. He keeps pushing, however, fighting the resistance.

Soap doesn't cry out at the unforgiving burn of the stretch. He moans about it. Little ah ah ah's that make Ghost furious. His victims should be terrified, in agony. They shouldn't enjoy themselves. This wasn't sex. It was rape. Brutal, unforgiving rape. But still, Soap moaned like a pornstar as Ghost bottomed out at last, snug in his little virgin hole.

Ghost pulls out and thrusts back in hard. The boy rocks with the motion, back scooting along the wood floors. Ghost grasps his legs tight, using their bindings for leverage. He fucks hard and fast, never giving Soap a moment to breathe. It's rough— he hadn't even used lube— but it's good. This boy was possible the tightest, hottest fuck he'd had in years. His only complaint was the lack of screaming and begging to stop. He didn't have to gag Soap to keep the noise down. The boy was too occupied with these sweet little moans and grunts.

“Fuck you,” Ghost growled as the kid has the audacity to beg for more. “Stupid little breeding sow.”

Soap's ensuing moan was loud. His hole fluttered around Ghost's cock as cun spurted from his cocklet. It was a pathetic load. Just a few strings of white to cover his own belly. Ghost sneered.

“I'm gonna kill you, you know? Gonna chop you up into itty bitty pieces and eat you for breakfast.”

Soap arched his back, bearing down hard on Ghost’s dick. “Please,” he moaned. “Use me!”

Fed up, Ghost grabbed his knife from the floor and buried it in Soap's abdomen. The poor thing squealed like a pig and squeezed hotly around Ghost. His wrists struggled against his bindings for a moment before he gave up and sank into the floor with another sweet moan. Ghost twisted the knife, blood bubbling from the wound and mixing with the cum on his belly. Still, the boy moans. 

“Yes!” He cries. “Yes!”

Ghost growled. He ran his hand over the bleeding wound and pulled out to slick his cock with it. The glide is easier after that, smoother. He can properly fuck the boy, now.

“Im gonna keep you here,” Ghost snarled. “Gonna tie you up and harvest you for meat. Make you eat yourself. Hang you up with a hook like a proper piece of meat.”

“Anything!” Soap cried. “Please!”

Ghost cums with a frustrated grunt. His orgasm was enough to make his knees weak, but it wasn't enough. He wasn't satisfied. He couldn't kill the boy without being satisfied.

Soap groaned appreciatively at the feeling of being filled. He squirmed where he laid, like the knife still in his belly wasn't a bother to him. It made Ghost so angry.

“Im going to patch you up,” Ghost said lowly. “And you're going to have a nice little spot in my basement. Understood? You're never getting out of here.”

“Will you fuck me again?” The boy asked hopefully. Ghost merely twisted the knife in reply.

Chapter Text

Ghost tended to be a well-planned man. He always had a plethora of plans, of ideas, of situations thought out in his head. He was overprepared for even the smallest of tasks— like making a mug of tea. Soap MacTavish, however, tended to blow through his plans like they were never there. Shredded them like thin paper.

Those foiled plans is how, somehow, they end up in a supply closet mid mission. A mole had ratted their cover and they needed to hide, quick. Ghost had planned to make a quick exit of the building. They were only on the second floor and guards were few and far between. Soap, however, had heard a man talking in the hallway beside them, and decided to pull them into the world's smallest supply closet.

They were pressed chest to chest, breathing the same air. They were so close, in fact, that the only way to fit was for Ghost to shove one of his thick thighs between Soap's parted legs. It was an awful situation, and Ghost wanted out. But, much to his dismay, there were footsteps in the hall. Voices. Because Soap had taken the time to shove them in the closet, they couldn't make an easy mistake.

“Sergeant,” Ghost whispers into the silent air between them. “Im going to kill you.”

“Not if they kill us first.”

Soap shifts upon Ghost's thigh, and the man freezes. He lets out a soft little squeak. Ghost has half a mind to tell the man to hush, but then trembling hands are gripping the front of his tailored suit.

“Ghost,” he whispers, sounding desperate for a reason Ghost couldn't place. “Yer thigh—”

“Has nowhere else to go,” he scolds. In the darkness, he can just barely make out the nod of Soap’s head. He settles back down onto Ghost’s thigh after that, no longer holding himself up high. Ghost listens to the noise outside of the door. The guards are still there, still waiting for them to appear. They'll be stuck a while longer. At least none of them have the sense to check the conveniently placed supply closet.

Soap shifts again, a small whimper following the action. On instinct, Ghost moves his thigh up. Pressed against Soap's groin, he can feel the unmistakable bulge of his rock hard cock. It makes him sigh, thigh untensing and settling down.

“Really?” He whispers. Soap can only whine, hips bucking, searching for friction.

“Sorry, Sir,” he pleads. “Cannae help it. It's the adrenaline.”

“Either cum in your pants or stop humping me like a mutt, Sergeant,” he orders swiftly. 

His words seem to only encourage the man, who picks up a sedate rocking of his hips. He lets out soft whines and whimpers, sounding exactly like a needy dog. Under different circumstances, Ghost might relish in the desperate noises and the feeling of his Sergeant humping his leg. As it stood, he was making far too much noise to not blow their cover.

Ghost muffles him with a broad palm over his parted lips. Soap makes a questioning little noise, but he sinks into the hold soon enough. His hips pick up the pace, and soon enough, the Sergeant is properly fucking himself. His breath is hot against Ghost's palm, panting little breaths that surely have him dizzy. The man doesn't seem to mind, too lost in his own pleasure to care about their lives on the line.

“Do you hear that?” A voice comes from near the supply closet. Within a moment, Ghost is full body pressing Soap into the wall. Silent, waiting for the door to open. Thankfully, it never comes. But Soap does. Being pinned down evidently does it for him, because his eyes roll back and he lets out the sweetest little moan. The space between their hips grows wet with cum, and Ghost rolls his own eyes at how easy Soap is.

The footsteps eventually fade and the hall goes silent. Only then does Ghost let Soap go, returning the miniscule space between them.

“Sir—”

“Not a word.”

Ghost opens the door, and they're off. He doesn't think about the sweet noises Soap made in the cramped darkness. And he certainly doesn't corner Soap once they're back on base, just to give him a proper time.