Here, have some more of this fic I swear to god I'm not writing. I did not proofread this at all.
It’s not as if it’s a hardship, to let Johnny crawl into his lap, to grip tight to the smooth skin at subtle curve of his waist and let him rock himself into what sounds like a pretty spectacular orgasm, if the soft reedy moan he tries to muffle into the curve of Ghost’s neck is anything to go by.
It only becomes a problem when Soap reaches for his belt buckle, still rutting against Ghost’s thigh, scraping his teeth over the tendons in Ghost’s neck.
“Don’t,” Ghost bites out, too sharp, and Soap jerks back.
It’s not as if Ghost doesn’t want it, want him, but it’s how he wants. That’s a thing far too dangerous for a man like Ghost to ever let out of its cage.
“Let me,” Soap dares, lets the bristles of Ghost’s stubble sting his lips as he slides his mouth along the line of Ghost’s jaw, “be so good for ye, Simon.”
“That’s enough. Get off me,” Ghost orders, even sharper, and Johnny goes very, very still for a brief moment before all of a sudden he’s on his feet, standing stiff at attention in front of Ghost’s bent knees.
“Yes, Sir,” Soap spits, accent flattened all to hell. He’s furious, Ghost realizes, can fucking feel it, heat that doesn’t belong to him crawling down the back of his neck.
Johnny doesn’t flush easily, Ghost knows. Olive toned skin just dark enough to cover any light burst of red that might crop up, and he’s essentially immune to embarrassment, but he’s flushed now, dark and angry across his cheekbones and down the sides of his clenched tight jaw.
Ghost has fucked up, again, as usual, but he doesn’t fucking understand it. Soap knows better, he has to know better, Ghost knows the bond goes both ways, that Johnny can feel him just as well. He must feel the way that Ghost’s desire fucking prowls, paces along the hardline boundaries Ghost has set for it, what kind of threat it would pose unleashed.
He reaches out, tries to wrap his fingers around Soap’s wrist just to, to, he doesn’t know, to feel him, to soothe the pounding of his heart, somehow, because it’s not as if he can explain, but Soap jerks away, snaps “Don’t fucking touch me,” still barely any trace of his accent.
Soap swallows, hard, and he won’t meet Ghost’s eyes for all he’s still the picture perfect example of a solider at attention, “Apologies for my insubordination, Sir. Am I dismissed, Sir?”
The question hangs there in the air between them for a long moment because Ghost wants to say no, the fuck he’s not, to ask him what the hell he thinks he was doing, trying to touch Ghost like he’s an average man, with normal wants, like it matters at all what would be good for Simon, as if there’s any good in it.
“Dismissed, Sergeant,” he manages instead. He makes the mistake of blinking, and Johnny is gone.
Two hours later they’re geared up on an infil flight, Gaz between them, Price pacing in front of the three of them going over an incredibly short notice mission brief at the top of his lungs.
One of Makarov’s top lieutenants cropped up on a Berlin cctv camera of all things, leaving an obvious trail back to a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. It’s a fucking trap, it’s obviously a fucking trap, they all know it’s a fucking trap, but they’re going anyway.
Soap’s on overwatch, and fucking pissed off about it, Ghost can tell before he even opens his mouth to argue the point.
“Sir,” Soap starts, and even though it’s directed at Price, Ghost has to tense against a wince, “I should go in, I can-”
“Absolutely not. Sightlines and intel are both for shit. Ghost goes in on the north, Gaz and I flank from the south and east. You cover us from the rise to the west, we RV at your location once the package is secured for exfil,” Price runs down again, and points a steady finger in Soap’s face when he takes a sharp breath, “This isn’t a fucking debate, Sergeant MacTavish. Stealth is priority one - Ghost goes in.”
“What fuckin’ stealth,” Soap mutters, quiet enough that Price doesn’t hear him, although Ghost and Gaz certainly do, “They know we’re fuckin’ comin’,”
“In position. Eyes on the north entrance. Bravo 0-7 you’re clear for infil.” Soap accent is nonexistent again, quite possibly the cleanest comms Ghost has ever heard from him, and it’s fucking unnerving.
The building is unnerving, too. The northside is a maze of offices, as the building schematic had suggested. Ghost makes his way slowly down the first of many short, blind hallways, vaguely wishing he had Soap on his six as the Sergeant calls the southern entrance, a loading dock, clear for secondary infil for Gaz. It’s dead silent inside, no sign of anyone, let alone a crew of heavily armed ultranationalists. Ghost calls office after office clear, working his way east to west and west to east as he moves ultimately south, while Gaz makes his way entrance via the loading dock.
“Bravo 6-1, breached the loading dock door. Storage space is packed with shelving units, all stacked. Visuals are garbage - Bravo 0-6, repo to southern infil for backup?”
Price’s entrance, to the east and without the benefit of any kind of overwatch, is immediately abandoned.
“Copy 6-1, moving to your location,” Price confirms, and Ghost breathes a little easier, which turns out to be a mistake.
Soap is confirming the southern entrance clear again for Price when the comm unit on Ghost’s shoulder explodes in a spray of plastic shards and goes entirely dead.
There’s a team of three, and Ghost takes two rounds in his chest plate before he manages to take them out.
No comms, a compromised plate, blunt force injuries to his ribcage, the likelihood that their target is even still here being near zero, and the horrifying spike of absolute terror that hits him like a sledgehammer through the bond, Ghost makes a call. He breaks directly south, moving as quietly as he can as he makes for Price and Gaz’s last known.
It takes way too long. Resistance gets heavy the closer he gets to second third of the building, and the break between the office section and the warehouse section, a dealers choice of bottlenecks with one entrance east and one west. Ghost makes his way through the west door, taking a nasty stab wound to his left bicep to do so. The pulsing terror coming through the bond hasn’t abated at all, although it’s been joined by a steady rise of rage in the last few minutes, so Soap’s alive and pissed the fuck off about something, at least. It’s strangely comforting.
There’s no sign of Gaz or Price in the warehouse, aside from dead Konni here and there. It’s not surprising, really; Ghost is moving slower than he should be, losing blood steadily from the gouge in his arm and breathing hard from the shots to his torso.
By the time he makes it out the loading dock door, he’s pretty solidly convinced he’ll have find cover for the night and scrape together a secondary exfil in the morning, because there’s no way Bravo’s hung around to wait for him. He clears the fence and jogs for the rise to the west anyway, towards their original RV.
Halfway up the hillside, the shouting comes into range.
“Ah’m no fookin’ leavin’ ‘im ‘ere, ye clarty fookin’ bastart,” Soap’s fucking screaming, accent back full force, “he ain’t fookin’ dead, ah’d fookin’ know it if he were fookin’ dead.”
Whatever whoever Soap is screaming at, and Ghost assumes it’s Price, says back isn’t audible.
“Ye keep yer goddamn voice down then, fookin’ leave me ‘ere and ah’ll bring ‘im back in the fookin’ mornin’, cuz he ain’t fookin’ dead!”
Another quiet pause and then, even louder, although that’s likely just because Ghost is closer, “Ah ken ye fookin’ ken we’re bonded, fookin’ everybody knows, ah’m no’ fookin’ stupid!”
Well. Obviously only one of those things is accurate.
“Quit fucking yelling, this is a stealth mission, MacTavish,” Ghost snaps as he breaks the treeline into the small clearing at the top of the rise. Soap’s got one fist knotted in Price’s collar, a finger wagging in the captain’s face, and he’ll be lucky to get out of this with only several write-ups in his file, “Nobody but Price knew that until you opened your fat gob, and you are fuckin’ stupid. Look at Gaz’s fuckin’ face, for christ’s sake.”
Gaz’s face is, in fact, a fucking picture of annoyance and disbelief, although it’s quickly overcome with the same relief painting Price’s features at the sight of Ghost, which is somewhat gratifying.
Soap is not relieved. The agonized fear coming through the bond dissipates immediately, and it’s pure fury after that.
“Ye mingin’ fookin’ cunt,” he shouts, and Price scrambles to grab the bitch strap on the back of his plate carrier to hold him back as he launches himself at Ghost.
“That’s enough, Sergeant MacTavish!” Price shouts, hauling Soap backwards even as he splutters and swings fruitlessly at Ghost, “Get in the goddamn truck. Gaz, you’re driving. Ghost, in the back, I need to dress that arm.”
It’s a long ride back to the German base where the helo back to Sterling Lines is waiting for them, and an even longer flight back home.
Price debriefs quietly with Laswell over the sat phone on the absolute fuckshow of a mission, Gaz naps, and Soap’s simmering rage blankets everything with a lovely, familiar soupçon of tension. Ghost chest hurts.
It continues to hurt through brushing off Price’s order to go to medical when they land, and through returning his gear to the armory, and through collecting his shower kit and locking the door to the communal shower in the officer’s wing, which he’s not really supposed to do, but it’s 4 in the fucking morning, and anyone with a complaint can take it up with Price.
It still hurts as he stands with his head hung under the blistering hot spray in the shower. It abates only when he manages to stop himself from breaking Johnny’s arm as a tentative hand lands on the wing of his right shoulder blade.
“Yer a huge fuckin’ piece of shite,” Johnny says as he plasters himself against Ghost’s back, accent mellowed some with his cheek tucked against the knob of Ghost’s spine.
“Shut up,” Ghost sighs, stares down at the tile under his feet, too tired to argue or even get hard, “Just, fucking, just take what you need.”
Johnny does, wraps one arm too tight around around Ghost’s ribs to haul him down enough to nudge his cock between Ghost’s cheeks, fingers of his other hand pressing bruise into Ghost’s hip. Johnny rock against him, slow, clinging, so fucking sweet as he presses his mouth along the hard line of Ghost’s shoulders, swallowing water and panting, “Simon, oh, fuck, Simon, Simon, please.”
He comes, a quiet, aching sound against the back of Ghost’s neck, and doesn’t let go of Ghost at all when he says, “I fuckin’ hate you.”
dededos
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