I think you would eat up a who did this to you trope with Azriel 😛😛
(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)
Summary: "Who did this to you!?"
Authors Note: Lowkey this may be one of my favourite tropes...
Training in the Illyrian camps had always been brutal.
You knew that long before you decided to train.
Bruises were common. Bloody lips happened. Even Cassian had once shrugged at a dislocated shoulder like it was a mild inconvenience.
But this?
This was different.
The male across from you circled slowly, wooden training sword spinning lazily in his hand while several others watched from the sidelines. The afternoon sun beat harshly against the training ring, sweat sticking your leathers to your skin.
“You’re distracted,” the Illyrian sneered.
You tightened your grip on your blade. “I’m fine.”
He smirked.
Then he struck.
Hard.
The force of the blow rattled down your arm painfully enough to numb your fingers. Before you could fully readjust your stance, he swept your legs out from under you which you tried to clumsily recover from.
Pain exploded across your cheekbone as the hilt of his weapon clipped your face hard enough to send you finally sprawling.
The world tilted sickeningly.
You hit the dirt hard.
A few males laughed nearby.
Humiliation burned hotter than the sting of your cheek.
“Get up,” he barked.
You did.
Again and again, he came at you too aggressively for a sparring match. Every strike was meant to hurt. To embarrass. To prove something.
And when you managed to land a decent hit to his ribs—
His temper snapped.
The next shove sent you crashing directly into one of the wooden posts surrounding the ring. The male hit you hard enough that your vision blurred.
You stumbled backward as his hand grasped the front of your leathers, boots skidding across the dirt as he dragged you away forcefully into the middle of the ring, before slamming shoulder-first into the ground once again.
Something cracked painfully along your ribs.
Pain exploded across your side and a sharp gasp escaped you before you could stop it.
The training ring went quiet for half a second.
The male looked almost satisfied.
“You’re weak,” he spat.
You swallowed hard against the pain radiating through your ribs. “I said I’m fine.”
But your voice sounded strained even to your own ears.
He eventually grew bored and wandered away.
You ignored the looks from the others as you left the ring, forcing your breathing steady while your side screamed with every step. You didn’t want pity. Didn’t want a scene.
You especially didn’t want Azriel finding out.
Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed personally committed to ruining that plan.
You had barely made it beyond the training courtyard when shadows curled around your ankles.
Your heart dropped.
Azriel stepped from the shadows directly in front of you.
He took one look at your face and froze.
His eyes took everything in.
Your split lip. The darkening bruise across your cheekbone. The rip in your leathers exposing bloodied skin beneath. The way you were holding your side like breathing itself hurt.
The world seemed to go silent around him.
Even his shadows stilled.
“Who did this to you?”
The words were terrifyingly calm.
You immediately straightened despite the pain. “Az, it looks worse than it is—”
“Who.”
You had heard him interrogate enemies with more warmth than that single word.
You swallowed hard. “It was training.”
Azriel’s gaze dropped to the blood soaking through your side.
Then to the trembling hand you were unsuccessfully trying to hide behind your back.
His jaw flexed once.
“Training,” he repeated softly.
The shadows around him began writhing violently.
You stepped forward quickly before he could vanish. “I’m alright.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That does not comfort me.”
His voice cracked slightly on the last word and suddenly the anger on his face looked dangerously close to panic.
Azriel moved toward you slowly then, like he was holding himself together by sheer force. His scarred hands hovered near your waist, hesitant—as though he was afraid touching you would hurt.
“Let me see.”
You winced as he carefully moved your arm from your ribs.
Blood stained his fingers instantly.
He went utterly still.
The kind of stillness that meant something terrible was about to happen.
You knew it immediately.
“Azriel,” you said carefully.
His hazel eyes lifted to yours.
Cold. Lethal.
“Who,” he repeated quietly, “hurt you?”
You hesitated for half a second too long, your eyes instinctively flickering over to the male in question.
That was all he needed.
His shadows surged violently around him as understanding settled across his face.
You grabbed his wrist immediately. “Please don’t kill him.”
His gaze snapped back to yours, and somehow that terrified you more because his expression remained perfectly calm.
“I need you to go inside.”
You blinked. “What?”
Rhysand’s mother’s old house sat just beyond the camp, warm light glowing faintly through the windows.
"Go inside."
"Not unless you come with me."
He didn't say anything for a moment, but eventually he nodded his head sharply.
You heaved a sigh of relief, as much as your ribs allowed you anyway.
Azriel guided you towards the house carefully, one hand firm against your back while shadows circled restlessly around both of you.
“Azriel, I'm fine—”
“You’re hurt. You can barely stand.”
That shut you up because unfortunately he was correct.
Pain stabbed sharply through your ribs with every breath now, your head spinning unpleasantly from whatever damage had been done to your face.
Azriel opened the door and guided you inside with startling gentleness compared to the fury radiating from him.
The moment the door shut behind you in your room, he turned toward the small wash basin, grabbing a cloth to press carefully against the blood at your side.
His hands shook, so slightly that anyone else may have missed it.
But not you.
That scared you more than the injuries.
“Azriel…”
His eyes flicked upward.
You softened immediately at the sheer rage and fear warring there.
“I’m okay,” you whispered.
Something painful crossed his face.
“No,” he said quietly. “You aren’t.”
He cleaned the blood from your cheek with impossible care, but every new bruise he uncovered only darkened his expression further.
When he touched your ribs, you inhaled sharply.
Azriel closed his eyes.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Then he stood.
You immediately grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”
His fingers curled tightly around yours for one brief second.
“You know I can’t let this go.”
“He was just a bit rough, that’s all—”
“He enjoyed it.”
Silence.
Because again—he was right.
Azriel crouched in front of you then, both hands cupping your face carefully despite the blood still staining your skin.
“You are not supposed to look like this after training,” he said softly.
The fury in his voice made tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes.
You leaned into his touch instantly. “Please don’t kill him.”
A shadow of dark amusement crossed his face.
“I’m going to try not to kill him.”
“Azriel.”
His thumb brushed gently beneath your swollen cheekbone.
“I’m simply going to remind him,” he said softly, “that if he ever touches you like that again, training or not, they’ll never find enough of him left to bury.”
You stared at him.
He stared calmly back.
Oh, he meant business.
“Azriel—”
He leaned forward, kissing your forehead tenderly before you could continue arguing.
“Stay here.”
And before you could stop him, darkness swallowed him whole.
You groaned softly, dropping your head back against the chair. “Mother save that male.”
It was nearly an hour before shadows finally stirred near the fireplace again.
Azriel stepped from them silently.
Your head snapped up from where you’d been anxiously waiting wrapped in blankets.
He looked entirely uninjured.
Calm.
Too calm.
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Did you kill him?”
Azriel paused mid-step like he genuinely needed to consider the question.
“No.”
Suspicion flooded you instantly. “Azriel.”
His mouth twitched faintly.
“I didn't kill him.”
“I don't believe you.”
A soft huff of laughter escaped him then as he crossed the room toward you.
The tension in your chest eased immediately despite yourself.
He was alive. He was safe. Most importantly, he was here.
Azriel crouched beside your chair, hands settling carefully around your waist as though checking you were still real.
“I merely reminded that filth,” he said mildly, “that training with you does not grant him permission to brutalise you.”
You squinted. “Define reminded.”
A pause.
“He will struggle to sit comfortably for a few days.”
“Azriel.”
“And perhaps his hand is broken.”
You stared at him in shock.
Azriel looked entirely unrepentant.
“He shouldn’t have touched you.”
The possessive fury beneath the quiet words made your stomach flip.
You sighed tiredly. “You’re terrifying.”
His expression softened instantly. “Not to you though, right?"
You smiled gently at him, brushing some stray hairs tenderly from his forehead. "Of course not."
The rest of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
His hands slid carefully up your arms, pulling you gently into his lap despite your quiet protest about your ribs.
Azriel ignored you completely.
He tucked your head beneath his chin, wings curling protectively around both of you while his shadows settled at last.
Safe.
You felt his lips brush softly against your hair.
“No one hurts you,” he murmured quietly, “and walks away unchanged.”
Rating: Explicit
Wordcount: 4k
Summary: They get home, they fuck, finally, properly, idk. This is just porn. Bon appetit.
CW: rimming, marking. choking, light dom/sub ig, dirty talk, somno mention, anal fingering, anal sex, possessive bastards the both of them, top ghost/bottom soap
♦ My Masterlist • If you prefer AO3 ♦
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Chapter 10: Dying Is Absolutely Safe
Soap presses into Simon's back, hips flush to his arse, teeth in his shoulder, hands roaming over the planes of his stomach, his tits, sliding down to press a palm against Simon's half-hard cock.
"Come oooon," Johnny is whining, sweetly, nearly begging by tone of voice alone.
"You're not— not making this— ah, fuck— any easier."
Simon hisses when Soap cups him through his trousers. His fingers shake trying to push the key into the godforsaken keyhole. The light's out in the whole damn stairwell, some fuse or the other apparently giving up the ghost. The corridor is black as the night they just escaped, lips already aching with kisses, Soap clawing at Simon's back when Ghost pushed him up against the wall before they even made it into the house.
He almost let Johnny talk him into it, too, to get him off again right there, pressed against the side of his building. The only thing that kept him from giving in was the thought of how beautiful Johnny might look when Simon denies him, again and again, like he can only do if he takes him to bed properly. Makes him cry and plead for it before he gives his boy what he needs. It'll be a thing of beauty, Johnny's eyes red-rimmed, and his face blotchy and pink when he begs to finally cum.
That thought had Simon rock-hard, but strengthened his resolve to make it the fuck inside where they can take their time. A luxury, in their line of… of life, really, and as much as he has been enjoying showing Johnny off for anyone who cares to look, he wants this to be just theirs. Wants this time to themselves, and nobody else. Wants to be the only one to hear Johnny fall apart, to watch him and know that it was him who did all that. Wants to feel like Johnny is only his.
Insistent lips press kisses along the nape of Simon's neck now — it's a wonder Johnny can reach, and Ghost grins to himself, then groans when Johnny's fingers dip beneath his waistband, slide along his length. Soap is pressing up against him urgently, his own cock firmly nestled between Simon's cheeks, panting, moaning, whining for it already.
"Like a dog in heat, you are," Simon mumbles, enjoys feeling the shiver that sends through his boy.
His.
Finally, the key slots in, and they stumble inside as soon as Simon turns it, sent forward by the force of Johnny's body against his. Soap kicks the door shut, is on Simon not a second later, all tongue and hands, and Simon is just as bad, even if he loves to pretend he's not. Grabs at Johnny's arse through the thick fabric of his kilt, moans when their cocks slide together, despite the layers of fabric. Opens his mouth to let Johnny in, who still tastes like greasy fries and old cigarettes and cock, and it's so fucking good anyways.
Simon pushes him away from the door into the living space, the room only lit by the street lights outside shining in through the window. It reflects on Johnny's glowing skin, sweaty and dewey as he steals another kiss from Simon's lips.
"Bend over," Ghost pants into his mouth, can't help himself, needs to see him, needs to know Johnny will let him. "Come on, Johnny, please. Let me see."
He can feel Soap smile into his mouth, and goes easily when Soap's hands tug him along, his mouth only leaving him when Johnny follows his order: Drapes himself across the armrest of the couch, skirt riding up so high it almost exposes the soft place where his arse connects to his thighs, covered in dark hair, the tape on his knee invisible from the back. Johnny's all skin and curls like this, could almost be mistaken for tame if Simon didn't know him like the back of his hand. If he didn't know the sly smile that must be pulling at Johnny's lips, because of course he is getting exactly what he wants. Just so happens that it's what Simon wants as well.
Johnny's thigh twitches, the meat of it trembling, and Simon's mouth waters at the sight. He is on his knees nearly as fast as Johnny was, back in that alley, cum still drying in his hair now. Filthy little pup, and so fucking good for Simon.
He runs his palms up and down the backs of Johnny's thighs, lets himself revel in the shivers his touch elicits, licks along the cords of muscle, bites at the meat and soft fat of his inner thigh. Tastes sweat and Johnny's skin, and can't remember a moment he was ever happier than he is right now. His hands slip up and up and up, below Johnny's kilt, kneading his round cheeks until Ghost is sure he must have left more bruises, kissing and licking and sucking marks into Johnny's soft flesh all the while, until the man is moaning, hand reaching back to pull at Simon's hair.
"Ge' on with it," Soap hisses, but he's smiling to soften the complaint, Simon can hear it in his voice. Not that he'll listen anyways. He can be selfish, just this once. He wants to be, and Johnny is letting him. Simon bites into the skin beneath his teeth, sinks his fangs into his willing prey until he can almost taste the blood.
"Always good to take big things slow, isn't that what you said earlier, Sergeant?"
God, it really was earlier. Not even a whole day, and so much has happened. Soap snorts.
"Fuck, since when d'ye listen tae me, LT? Fuck tha', fuck me instead."
He's twisted around to stare at Ghost with big, blue eyes, cheeks deliciously flushed just like the rest of his skin, and it's hard to resist. Even harder when Simon has to ignore his own cock, aching and straining again like it shouldn't be fucking possible. But Johnny makes him insane, doesn't just drive Simon off the edge but explodes the whole fucking cliff instead.
"No," Simon says, and stops there, because if he said any more, Soap might try to convince him otherwise again, and if he keeps begging so sweetly, Simon won't be able to resist for long. He flips up Johnny's skirt instead, thick wool draping along his narrow waist, exposing the straps of his jock and baring his ass.
Ghost loses his mind a little at the sight, can't look away, can't move, can't fucking breathe. Everything he has ever wanted, presented to him as if he deserves it. As if he could ever fucking do right by him. It doesn't matter now. Johnny wants this — wants him, even if Simon doesn't understand why.
This angelic man, his beautiful Johnny, laid out for him, waiting, panting for breath and impatient already. Simon takes his time, though, admires the view. It's what he has denied himself for so long, after all, coward that he is:
The thick, muscular trunks of Johnny's thighs, spread a little to accomodate Simon kneeling between them. The soft hair that covers them, dark and curly and fucking mouth-watering, sticky with sweat and dried cum. The globes of Johnny's ass, round and plump and already starting to show the traces of Simon's fingers, red and purple outlines of his hands where he grabbed him hard. And Simon's prize, the perfect, pink furl of his hole, covered in dark hair just like the rest of him.
He has never wanted to taste anything more in his fucking life, thinks might die if he doesn't.
Simon takes a breath, as if that might help to steady him, but all it does is make his head swim more. Johnny. Right here, in front of him. Begging for Simon to take him. Letting himself be defiled like this, wanting it, begging for it. Wanting Simon.
Soap's hand is still buried in his hair, his arm too twisted to have much force, but he tugs at him anyways, and Simon goes more than willingly, bites Johnny's inner thigh again just to hear him moan, kisses and kisses whatever he can reach. Worships his skin, and the man beneath it.
He makes Johnny wait just a little before he spits on his hole, tries to tell himself he's still in control. He is, but it's slipping, getting worse by the second, and the really bad thing is that Ghost doesn't even fucking mind. Not if it gets him this: Johnny trembling beneath him as Ghost lets more saliva drip onto his waiting hole, foamy white on puckered pink, sticking in the dark hair, clumping it together like Johnny's tears did his lashes.
Simon's cock twitches at the memory. He ignores it.
"Good lad," he mumbles into Johnny's hot skin, to feel him shiver again, to reward him, to see if it works. And it does, Johnny's hips jerk forward, and Ghost chuckles. "Love that you're so easy for me, sweetheart. Relax now, yeah? Let me take care of ya."
He spits again, then presses his face between Johnny's cheeks without warning, tongue flicking at his hole. He loves the taste of it, always has, musk and sweat and bitterness. It's even better when it's Johnny, writhing beneath him, fucking whimpering and moaning for it.
Simon slips his hands up Johnny's thighs, digs his fingers into the meat of his arse, spreads his cheeks for easier access. Slowly licks his way inside, lapping at his hole with gentle strokes until he feels Johnny's muscles unclench beneath him, feels him go lax and pliant beneath his own blood-stained hands. He pushes his tongue inside, pulls back for a split second to breathe, right hand inching towards Johnny's hole. Spits on it again, looser now, loose enough to press in the tip of his thumb alongside his tongue.
Johnny hisses, and Ghost feels his knees buckle.
"Fuuuck," Soap grinds out, voice muffled by the pillow his face is resting on. "Jesus, baby, if I'd known ye were so good at this— oh bleedin' hell, Simon, fuck, that's— that's good, oh god, please… please…"
Ghost hums, presses his thumb deeper. He's not trying to reach Johnny's prostate, thinks the lad might shoot off on him if he does, but he'll need the stretch. Needs to get him nice and loose before Ghost loses his fucking patience, and he will, much as he enjoys this, but it's only a matter of time. His balls feel full like they haven't been emptied in weeks, and his dick is throbbing in time with his pulse, every taste he gets.
"Taste fucking good, Johnny," he murmurs, keeps his thumb hooked inside but pulls back to lick at Johnny's rim, pink and puffy from Ghost's efforts. "Gotta get you nice an' open for me though, yeah? Make sure you're ready to take me."
"'m fuckin' ready, Sir, fuck."
And God, Simon is a terrible man for the way that makes his insides curl.
"You're not even close." Simon is a little mean with it, wets his pointer and middle finger quickly, effectively, and replaces his thumb with them. Johnny shakes a little.
"Simon— oh fuck, Si—"
"There ya go," Ghost whispers. "Takin' it so well for me, sweetheart. Gonna be so fucking good when I finally get my cock in you, yeah? Make sure you can take it, then fill you up so good you won't be able to move tomorrow without thinking of me."
Soap is panting heaving breaths, the muscles in his thighs twitching as Simon flicks his tongue along his rim, steadily thrusting with his fingers, scissoring them open slowly, his other hand greedily grabbing at the meat of Johnny's arse.
"Thought— oh fuck—" Johnny buries his head in the pillows for a moment when Simon pushes his tongue inside him again, between his own fingers. Might go easier if he had lube, but fuck knows he won't give this up for anything. Goosebumps rise on Johnny's flesh.
"… thought I was the fuckin' talker," Soap sounds like he's grinning, and Simon can't help but smile as well. "If I'da known all I needed tae do tae get ye tae talk was tae seduce ye-"
"Ya seduced fuckall, Johnny," Ghost grunts, spits and slowly, carefully, pushes a third finger in. Johnny's knuckles go white where he grabs the pillows beneath him, but if the way his hips are thrusting into nothingness are any indication, he's fucking enjoying himself. "Wha', chattin' up other men counts as seducing now, does it? Fuckin' hell. Ya licked me, is what ya did. Filthy little pup."
Johnny moans, high like he didn't mean to, just couldn't hold it in. Blinks back at him, mischievous, happy, slow like a cat.
"Ye like me like this, dinnae pretend, Si." His mouth drops open a little, a hushed groan when Simon curls his fingers just right, but Simon doesn't grant him the pleasure again. Soap bites his lip. "Still on about Oscar, are ye?"
"Had already forgotten his name again," Simon mumbles. "Not a good sign you still remember it, Sergeant. Time I'm done with ya, ya shouldn't even remember your own fucking name."
Johnny's eyes are so fucking bright. How is that allowed?
"Ye promise, Sir?"
"Mh." Simon pulls his fingers out of Johnny's perfect, tight warmth, slowly, ignoring his boy's pleas. Stares at his work… and sees perfection. Never was gonna turn out any different, not when it's Johnny: his thighs covered in bites and bruises, his hole gaping just a little, swollen from Simon's attention and shining in his spit. Simon needs to see his cum drip from it, pearly white, needs to see Soap filled up and fucked out.
"Look good like this, sweetheart." His voice is barely audible even in the quiet of the room, but Soap perks up. If he had a tail it would be fucking wagging.
"Could have me like this every day, baby," he says, and it's teasing, but also so fucking soft that Simon forgets how to breathe for a moment. Has to remember, has to force his lungs to contract like they should.
"Keep you open," he muses, quietly, mostly to himself even if he sees the shiver it sends down Johnny's spine. He pats his flank as if to calm him down, can't keep his hands to himself and needs an excuse, still. "Be a dream, sweetheart. Have ya waiting and ready for me every day? Christ, I'd go soft."
"Was rather hopin' ye'd go hard," Johnny grins. Cheeky bastard. Simon smiles.
"That too, love."
He grunts when he pushes himself up from the ground, drapes himself across Soap's prone body, hard cock pressing up against Johnny's sensitive hole, slotting right between his cheeks where he belongs. Johnny moans softly, pushes his hips back to meet him.
"Feel what you do to me?" Simon whispers into his ear. "All that, just for you, Johnny. Gonna take me so well."
Johnny whines, arches his back harder, begs for more with that beautiful, willing body of his that makes Simon give in like nothing else ever has.
"Please," Johnny whimpers. "Please, want ye inside, Sir. Need tae feel it, need tae be so full."
"Gonna be," Simon promises, already pushing down his own trousers even though he has no intention of fucking Johnny here, like this. But he just needs to feel it, just for a moment. Wants to know what it's like, skin on skin, needs to stare and take without being watched. Needs to press Johnny's face into the pillows so he won't see the look in Simon's eyes. So he won't know he loves him.
His trousers drop, no elegant fucking way about it, boots still on. Doesn't matter, though, not when Simon gets to spread his precum along his length, slot his cock between Johnny's cheeks.
His piercings drag along warm skin and soft hair, the glide eased by the drying saliva already there, but Simon spits again for good measure. Christ, at this rate he'll dehydrate before he even gets to blow his load again. Inside, this time, there's no fucking question about that, Johnny's pink hole gaping, filled up and leaking. Claimed.
"Fuck, Johnny," he breathes, feels his cock weeping more pre, smears it between Johnny's cheeks. "Wet like a woman, you are. All that for me?"
"Jesus," Johnny sounds like he's biting the pillow, twisting to close his hand around Simon's wrist, squeezing until the pain is so much Simon feels on the edge from just that.
"You like that, sweetheart?" It's barely a whisper, right in Johnny's ear, his hair tickling Simon's face when he presses closer.
"Shouldnae," Johnny whines, pushes back more urgently when Simon cups his tits where he can reach, flicks his thumb over a pebbled nipple and tugs at the piercing running through it. "Christ, yer dirty. No' playin' fair, Sir."
Simon shivers at the title, thrusts harder against no resistance, leaks more, loves it more.
"Oh, but you are?" He's smiling, can't help it, wants to give Johnny everything he wants but also wants to wreck him a little. Ruin him for anyone else.
"Mh." Johnny stretches his back, grinds his hips back until the slick head of Simon's cock catches on his loose rim, wiggles and whines when Simon won't push in, pulls back instead.
"Patience, love," Simon scolds, though he can't hold on much longer either. He needs to be inside Johnny, and preferably right fucking now. "Gotta get you to the bed, yeah?"
It takes everything in him to pull back, and he fucking hates it, immediately hates the lack of skin to skin, misses Johnny's warmth and wants it back. Wants so much after years of not letting himself want anything.
He rights himself, pulls Johnny with him, not that he needs to do much, Johnny jumping and wrapping his legs around him. He knows Ghost can carry him, makes it slower to get to the bedroom but it's worth it to be kissing Johnny.
Ghost toes his boots off while he does, steps out of his pants so he doesn't trip and split their skulls open on the way to the bedroom, because wouldn't that be fucking awkward. Johnny is panting into his mouth, rubbing his wet cock against the soft hair on Ghost's belly, kissing him all wide-eyed like he's not in control, like Ghost isn't giving him everything he needs.
Simon drops him on the bed unceremoniously, flips Johnny's skirt up, presses his knees to his chest.
"Think ya can take me, Sergeant?" He asks mostly to use Johnny's title, to see his pupils blow out, to watch him struggle to think of the right words. Johnny's eyes flutter shut when Simon rubs the wet tip of his cock against his hole, but Simon doesn't press in. Pushes his thumbs in instead, both of them this time, to pull Johnny's hole apart and fuck, isn't that a sight to see. Perfect.
"Please, Si- fuck, put it in, please, please." Soap is whining, so far gone.
"Patience," Ghost grits out, so close to giving in, just because Johnny is begging and he looks so beautiful with tears in his eyes.
"L- lube," Johnny moans, shaking and shivering, and Ghost thinks that yeah, might be a good idea, even though he hates to leave Johnny like this even just for a second.
"Stay," he says, same tone as he would to a dog, and Johnny grins. But he stays, doesn't even need to be told off for touching his flushed dick, keeps his hands behind his head. Good puppy.
It takes Ghost all of two seconds to pull the lube from the drawer of his night stand, slick himself up, but it's too fucking long anyways. Slowly, he pushes his hips forward, lining himself up, pressing in, just the tip, goes a little weak-kneed at how tight Johnny is, how warm and wet.
"F-fuuuuck, LT," Johnny pants, claws at Simon's shoulders, his sides, his arse, pulls at him. "More, more, c'mon baby, gimme more, I can take it."
And Simon obeys, would be too hard to resist now, and he doesn't want to anyways. All this effort to get Johnny here, in his bed, but he can't fucking hold on. Doesn't matter. He pushes in, more careful than he wants to be, but he has to take his time so he doesn't fucking explode before he's ever been inside Johnny.
It's still a close fucking call.
His breaths are quiet, but Johnny is loud, moaning and writhing as Simon fills him up, inch by inch.
"Feel so good, Sir, fucking good, god, I woulda— fuck, oh fuck, I need— move, baby, please, please, need it, wannae feel it— make me— oh god, fucking make me—"
Johnny is slipping, falling apart beneath Simon's broken hands, babbling and whining, rocking his hips down to meet Simon's, knees bent even though his bad one must hurt, and his eyes are so desperate and full of tears. Simon could look at him forever, wants to fuck him hard and fast and soft and slow at the same time. Anything, so long as Johnny keeps staring at him like this, eyes wide open and lips plush and red amd raw from Simon's barely-there five o'clock shadow.
Simon slides his hand across Soap's flat belly, pretends he can feel himself there, pushes deeper with quiet breaths and inaudible curses until he finally bottoms out. He pauses, sweat dripping from his brow, waits for Johnny to say something.
Waits a little longer.
"Jesus, Simon," Johnny is half moaning, half laughing, like it's absurd that they are here, and it is. That they get this, get to be here, together, hold each other, kiss each other. They deserve none of it, Simon least of all.
He kisses Johnny, hungry and wet, mouth open, rolls his hips when Johnny moans, does it again and again. He's skirting the edge already, palm of his hand grazing Johnny's leaking cock.
"Fuck, baby, I'm gonnae— don't— please, wannae come with ye, don' make me—"
"'s alright, Johnny, fuck—"
"Fuck me—"
Simon slides his hands up Johnny's sides, cups his tits, squeezes them together like a woman's, all muscle and fat, thumbs over Johnny's pierced nipples until his eyes roll back in his head and his mouth drops open.
His balls draw up, and he wants to come so bad, but he wants to feel Johnny first, needs to feel him squeeze and lose control and whine and cry and beg, but maybe he doesn't have the patience to wait for it, not tonight.
"Gonna come for me, sweetheart?" he mumbles, voice only shaking a little, rolls his hips faster, deeper, can tell that he hit Johnny's prostate spot on when his back arches off the bed. Does it again. And again. Presses his fingers into Johnny's hairy pectorals until he knows he'll leave bruises. "Come on, Johnny, wanna feel how tight your perfect little hole can get, yeah? Let me feel it, sweetheart, let me—"
"Fuck!" Johnny bites at Simon's lip, hard, and Ghost tastes iron but he doesn't mind, wraps his right hand loosely around Johnny's throat and licks his blood from Johnny's open mouth.
"Come for me," he whispers again, and it's a plea more than anything but Johnny obeys like it's an order anyways, back arching, fingers digging into Simon's arse, pulling him in closer, mouth open and willing and wide as he moans.
His hole spasms, goes so tight it almost hurts, but hurts so fucking good though.
"Come inside me," Johnny whines, desperate and low, and Simon can't hold on any longer, has to fill his boy like he deserves. His legs shake as he spills his load, hips moving slowly as he pumps Johnny deep and full, watches a tear slip from the corner of Johnny's eye before he bends down to kiss it off his cheek, then slots his lips to Johnny's again, blood smearing between them, vanishing between hungry mouths.
"Fuck," he says, out of breath and out of words. Doesn't mind that he collapsed into the puddle of cum on Soap's stomach.
"Fuck," Johnny agrees, smiling and sated.
Simon closes his eyes and breathes in Johnny's sweat-slicked skin. Lets himself lay there and just… be. Just for a little while. Maybe that can be alright.
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Chapter 9 ⮜ ♦ ⮞ Chapter 11 [coming]
have another! if u wanna be on the taglist just lmk in comments or reblogs. next chapter will be the last one of this series so far, i think.
Rating: Explicit
Wordcount: 4k
Summary: Simon POV of the last chapter as a treat. and some more.
CW: oral sex, deep throat, marking. choking, light dom/sub ig, dirty talk, somno mention, come marking
♦ My Masterlist • If you prefer AO3 ♦
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Chapter 9: Blue Dream
Soap is clawing at his legs, and Simon feels fucking unmoored. He doesn't deserve all this, any of it. But he wants it anyways, and Johnny… Johnny is so easy for it. Just lets him have it. Sinking down on Simon's fat cock like it's nothing, all willing mouth and eager tongue.
"Fuckin'— good pup," Simon growls, unused to doling out praise, unused to loving it so much. Unused to Johnny's huge blue eyes blinking up at him with tears already gathering in their corners, and Simon has to look away so he doesn't fucking blow his load at the sight. He drops his head back, doesn't mind the cold stone against his skull. It calms him, grounds him, that edge of discomfort keeping him sharp where Johnny's soft, welcoming mouth threatens to make him lose control.
Soap is experimenting now, licking at him, sucking just the head with gentle motions of those plush lips, and it's fucking unfair how good he is at this. Ghost will have to kill everyone else who ever got to have him, can't live with the knowledge that other people might walk around on God's green earth knowing what Johnny's throat feels like from the inside. What he looks like when he does this. How soft his skin is and how deep his moans. They can't be allowed to live, and Ghost knows that's not a healthy thought to even entertain for a split second, but he can't help it. Wants to hunt them all down. Push his knife through yielding sinew and watch them bleed out. They don't deserve Johnny. None of them. Not even Simon, but at least it's him Johnny wants, even if Simon can't understand why.
But it's reason enough to stick around.
When Soap runs his hot tongue along the underside of Simon's cock, teasing at the metal rungs, rolling the silver balls between careful teeth, Simon thinks he might just fucking explode.
Johnny is moaning like he is the one getting sucked off, humming around Simon's length, swallowing him down before letting him go. Eyes closed as he sucks the pink, flushed head into his mouth again, lets out a sigh so soft he might not even notice he's doing it. But Simon notices. Simon will remember this sound until the day he dies, and he hopes it's the last fuckin' thing he ever gets to think about because surely this is better than any promised Eden or Elysium ever could get. Not that he isn't hellbound in any case.
Johnny's mouth is his personal fucking heaven, and Simon lets himself be selfish.
He buries his hands in Soap's hair, is glad for the stupid fucking mohawk, glad it's getting long. Loves feeling the thick strands between his bare fingers, and how it makes Johnny purr when he scratches his scalp, not guiding him, not pulling him, merely enjoying the extra point of contact. God, Simon has needed this for so long. Has wanted it even longer.
He can feel Johnny gag just a little as he opens his throat to let Simon slip deeper, but he catches himself in time, breathes steady through his nose as Simon's cock lodges into the back of his throat, just at the edge of too much. And yet Johnny remains so sweet, so willing. Would probably pass out sucking him off if that's what Simon wanted, and fuck that's a scary thought. Scary mostly because it's so fucking tempting. Almost enough to make himself forget all caution, turning him on beyond fucking belief, his cock pulsing with it.
He presses the back of his skull into cold bricks so hard he thinks they might crack. Nothing makes him lose his restraint and quickly and as thoroughly as John MacTavish, and it's a hard thing to accept. Simon relishes it. Hates it a little too, by nature of his own mind. Knows he needs to work on that, that much all the shrinks have had in common so far in telling him, and he hates that too. Hates it a little less when it's Johnny.
Johnny, who's sucking him off like his life depends on it, lips round and wet with spit as he tries not to gag so hard, as if Simon would ever pull back willingly. As if Simon would ever let him go again.
Ghost must be sweaty and disgusting between his legs, would be even without having gone to a damn concert and stewing in his own perspiration for hours, but Johnny doesn't seem to mind, just lets his rank fucking cock slip deeper like satisfying a craving. Cups his balls, and it's almost too much then, but Simon holds on by a fucking thread.
Doesn't want this to end. Johnny breathes him in as deep as he can, moans loudly when the first rung of Simon's piercings pushes past his stretched lips, and Simon has to fucking look at him even if that might be the end of his carefully curated control. Just has to. Might go mad if he doesn't, so he pries his lids open.
Soap looks better than he did that day in church, cock clearly hard this time, though he was so fucking tempting even soft, with his thighs spread wide on that carved bench. But he's hard now just from he sucking Simon off, skirt draped across his thick thighs where he kneels, and Simon feels a little bad that Soap's doing this with his bad knee, but not bad enough to make him stop.
Especially not when Johnny lets out another moan, desperate and rough, lets Simon slip deeper, swallows again, and his throat becomes this perfect, tight, wet thing for Simon to fuck into, but he doesn't. Keeps his hips still, waits for Johnny to notice that he's being looked at. Feels his cock twitch when he finally does, those baby blues swimming with tears, warm and content and glazed over with pleasure.
And it's Simon who did that to him. Simon who is doing that to him. Making Johnny look like he's getting everything he has ever wanted, on the dirty ground in a dark back alley, moaning like a whore and choking on his cock like it's worship. He looks better on his knees for Simon than he did for God.
Soap makes a little pleased noise in the back of his throat and Simon clenches his teeth. He's already too fucking close, leaking and twitching in Johnny's mouth.
"Fuckin' hell," he says, because he can't fucking help it. His boy looks so perfect like this. His. Claimed and used. Nuzzling his face into Simon's thigh like he's begging for more even already stuffed full. Simon swallows thickly. "Need it bad, Johnny, eh?"
And Johnny, the cheeky fuck, kisses Simon's tip as he releases him, pulls himself closer by Simon's waistband, pushes his cheek up against his cock, smearing saliva all over that beautiful, flushed face, and Simon has to clench his stomach so he doesn't fucking explode.
"Fucking love it," Soap groans, sounds wrecked. He tilts his head before he tacks on a brazen little, "…Sir."
Ghost bites down so hard on his own cheek he tastes blood. He shouldn't enjoy this as much as he is, shouldn't love the position his rank gives him. It's wrong and fucked up on so many levels, but he can see Johnny's cock twitch every time he says it, and tells himself that makes it better. That he wants it just as much as Ghost does. Maybe it's true. Couldn't stop himself if it wasn't, though.
Soap is still staring up at him, blinking away the wetness from his eyes, shifting on his knees like he's trying to rub himself off without touching his prick.
"Please… let me get ye off like tha', Si. Wannae taste it."
Simon shudders, can't push down the noise that rises from his throat, like a throttled fucking deer, his skin buzzing with the need that is so clear to see on Johnny's face. That hunger, same as Simon's, just as deep. He needs this as much as Ghost does. Willing to do anything, the little slag, and Simon is so tempted to test his boundaries. See if he thinks about the same things he does, if he has the same fantasies when he gets himself off in his own bed after a long day.
He already knows some of Soap's twisted fucking mind, his own thoughts Ariadne's thread, guiding him to the middle of the maze, following the same path as Johnny's way too often. Fearing what lies in the midst of it all, craving the release it will bring to find out.
"Open up, sweetheart," Simon rumbles, pulls Johnny in closer, right where he wants him. This perfect man, pushing himself up, trying to take Simon's cock again like he's hungry for it, fingers digging into Simon's skin and he doesn't mind, but he does notice. His spine tingles pleasantly when he thinks about bruises the shape of Soap's hands, marking his skin, slotting between his scars. Marks of ownership, for both of them, a matching set.
Johnny is kissing along his length, trying to wrap his lips around the leaking tip, but that's not what Simon wants right now. He is after something else entirely.
"Open up," he demands again, gruffer this time, and Johnny scrambles to follow his order, open mouth, stuck out tongue, looking every bit the slag he is. Every bit the good pup Simon knows he can make of him. Deserves some praise. "Good lad."
He grins, feels untethered, already floating in pleasure even without Johnny's wicked mouth on him, nerves alight at the prospect of Johnny's reaction. He leans forward, lets saliva gather on his tongue, doesn't give Soap a warning or a chance to pull back. Just spits, right on his waiting tongue.
And Johnny fucking moans. Simon can see how his hips are bucking, watches those eyes slip closed for a split second. Watches how Soap swallows without even closing his fucking mouth, showing off proudly, the thick glob sliding down his tongue, into the back of his throat. It's mesmerising. It's sick how much satisfaction it gives Simon to know that Johnny is this willing and pliant, just for him. He has to grab his cock, squeeze tight at the base, stave off that edge of bliss that threatens to drown him. Has to push it back, make himself last. Johnny watches him with wide eyes.
Maybe he deserves a reward.
"Please, Sir," Johnny whispers just at that moment, thoughts matching as they so often do. It's a mumbled plea, he doesn't close his mouth after but sticks his tongue out again, and Simon has to breathe deep, his mouth suddenly dry as his boy begs for more. Would beg for anything. Take anything. Do anything, if Simon ordered him to, fuck. Johnny's right. He is a sick bastard.
Ghost spits again, slower this time, watches it drip down from his lips into the wanting cavern of Soap's mouth and thinks how pretty his face will look covered in his load. Wonders if he'll swallow it just as enthusiastically, knows at the same second that he will. Fuck.
He squeezes himself again.
And nudges his boot between Soap's legs. An offering, if Soap is fast enough to take it. Good pup deserves a treat. Johnny cocks his head, shuffles forward a bit, stares up at Simon like he doesn't fucking know what to do. Like he wasn't moaning for it a mere minute ago.
"Take what's on offer, sweetheart," Simon mumbles, presses the tip of his boot forward, upward, until the steel toe must nearly be nudging Johnny's taint. Greedy thing. Doesn't even know what to do with himself now that he got what he wanted. "Ain't got all night."
Soap clambers onto his offered boot like it's the only thing saving him from drowning, pressing up against Simon's leg, all plush tits and soft face, mouth forming a perfect little O as he rubs his cock against the sturdy laces. Must hurt, just a little, rough material not much softened by his soaked jock, probably covered in dried precum and spend. Simon likes that thought a little too much. Likes how desperate Johnny gets just from giving head, from the weight of Simon's cock on his needy tongue.
"Jesus-" Soap whines, grinding down hard, whimpering and moaning, so fucking desperate for it that Simon doesn't know what to fucking do with himself. "Thank ye— fuck, thank ye, Sir— fuck, fuck, thank ye—"
Open-mouthed, he presses his face into Simon's crotch, hot breath on the throbbing length of his cock, warming his balls, lips sliding along Simon's fingers where he's still gripping his own cock so he doesn't fucking shoot off.
He can barely control it, not himself, not Johnny, not any of it.
The feeling stirs something inside his belly, something anxious and dark, but he pushes it down, focuses on Johnny, his mouth, his face, his warmth and his fingers digging into Simon's thighs. Willingly submitting. Letting himself be used. Getting off on it, fucking made for him, his perfect boy.
He doesn't want this to end, needs to hold on so Johnny will stay like this, close and safe and by his side. At his feet, pretending he's taking orders from Simon when all he really does is coerce him so sweetly into giving what he wants. Yes, Simon knows him so well. Doesn't mind. Loves the feeling of security and fucking safety it gives him, this guise of command. A safe crash. Controlled addiction.
"Let me, please," Soap is moaning, pushing his face into the apex of Simon's thighs, and Simon can't do anything but let him. Can't do anything but moan when Soap swallows him down, throat open and needy and begging to be filled. He forces himself to stay still, to let Johnny work, let him do the hard part, let him adjust, let him take what he needs, what he's been fucking begging for all night.
And Soap does, gluttons himself on it, is greedy for it and lets Simon's cock slide down his throat until his pink, obscenely stretched lips meet the fabric of Simon's cargos, throat bulging where the piercings are pressing against it from the inside, and Simon has to keep so fucking still. Breathes a sniper's breath, can't waste this, has to hold on a little while longer. Buries his hands in Soap's hair but doesn't try to pull him off when Johnny stares at him, wide-eyed and desperate.
"You took it," Simon says. Can't believe the fucking view, can't believe this is real. That he really gets to have this. That Soap wants to be good for him. That he'd let him— "Fucking— fuckin' hell, Johnny, oh fuck. You— you are… good fucking boy. Knew you were greedy, god— still didn't think you'd— oh, fuck-"
He chokes when he feels Johnny's throat constricting as he swallows, too hot, too tight and for just a moment, Simon thinks this might be fucking it, but he hangs on by a thread, cock pulsing out so much precum he wonders if Johnny can taste it when he pulls off to breathe. Half-expects him to go back to something gentler, make it easier on himself, but Johnny doesn't. Of course not.
Like a good little soldier, he sinks back down on Ghost's cock — his CO's fucking cock — and just… stays. Blinking up at Simon, throat stuffed so full there is no way he can breathe, and Simon is so fucking close, has been from the second Johnny was on his knees, probably before.
"Fuck, 'm so close, Johnny," he groans, fighting to keep his eyes open so he can take in every second of this, of the tears welling up in Johnny's eyes again as he struggles to inhale but still doesn't fucking pull off. Keeps Ghost down his throat like that's where he's meant to be. Taps his fingers against the back of Simon's hand to make him lift it.
Takes it, and presses it firmly to his own throat.
"Fuck," Simon wheezes, can't fucking think, because that's his cock down Johnny's throat, he can fucking feel it, pressing up against his own palm. He can't— "'m not gonna last, sweetheart, don't—"
He chokes, breaks off when Soap just blinks, and stays where he is, eyes slowly drooping from the lack of oxygen, shallow breaths wheezing and slow. He stays.
"Fuckin' hell," Simon breathes, tugs at Soap's hair just to feel him moan, then regrets it when the vibration shakes his entire body. Johnny's own hips have long since stilled, too focused on the task at hand, too focused on Simon's pleasure to take his own. Good boy when he wants to be. "Fuck, you'd stay right there too, wouldn't you?"
He slides his hand up from Johnny's neck, runs his fingers along his strong jaw instead, loves feeling the spikey stubble. Presses his knuckle into Johnny's cheekbone, right where his blush blooms warm and pink beneath freckles like stars.
"Stay right there until you pass out," Ghost mumbles, like he's in a trance, floating and yet feeling every single fucking nerve inside his body. "You'd do it, if I ordered you to, yeah? Let me fuck your mouth until your body gives in? Jesus, I don't—"
Johnny makes a little choked off noise when Simon cruelly pushes his cock down just that little bit further. Fingers digging hard into Simon's thighs, scrambling for purchase as Soap struggles for breath that won't come. Doesn't struggle as hard as he could though. Simon would know. Has seen him fight for his life on more than one occasion. Knows what his Johnny looks like feral and covered in blood and viscera, licking his teeth clean from ripping a throat out. This is not that.
Johnny's nails barely break skin as he closes his hand around Simon's arm, pulls at him. Like gentle kisses on his pale forearm, burning in their wake, scratched open and raw as Johnny slowly runs out of breath and just… lets it happen.
And Simon could stay there, could do it, knows Johnny would probably go for another round when he wakes up with his mouth tasting of Simon's cum. Wouldn't think to complain for a second. Just as fucked in the head as he is, his Sergeant.
But Simon wants something else more.
He eases off Soap, pulls back until his leaking cock slips from between Soap's fucked out lips, and watches as his boy gasps for air, face red and pupils blown wide, chest heaving with deep, panting breaths.
"Yer fucked, LT," Soap grinds out, coughing and shaking, pulling harder at Simon's arm than he did when he was choking on his prick. "Get down here and kiss me, ye bastard."
And Simon obliges all too happily, even if it's uncomfortable, leans all the way down to meet Johnny's lips as he rises on his hackles, pushes his tongue into his mouth that tastes sweaty and bitter and like Simon's own cock, and doesn't mind one fucking bit.
Johnny wheezes out a moan from a bruised throat, hips bucking, brushing against Simon's boot like he's forgotten it's there and only just remembered.
"Fuck, Si," he breathes, "fuck, coulda come like tha', jus' stuffed with yer cock— Jesus, gottae do tha' again where it's safer— make good on all yer threats, aye? Fuck—"
"Ya gonna come for me, Johnny?" Simon asks, still out of breath, still so fucking close. "Open your mouth again for me, sweetheart. Wanna make a mess of you, god— fuck, looked so pretty like that, always do, but love seeing you like this, fucking slag you are. Taking my cock like you were made to do it, can't wait to stuff you so full you can't fucking think, yeah? Make you pass out and just keep going, you won't mind, sweetheart, will ya?"
And Soap lets out a fucking pathetic noise, hips pressing against Simon's leg when he shoots off just from his words, goes off so hard Simon can fucking smell him. His jock must have been pushed out of the way, because Simon feels warm fluid trickling into his boot, Johnny's cum soaking the leather, and god, fuck, isn't that something? After all the things that could have pushed him over the edge, this is what does it, this, and the look of blissed out pleasure on Soap's face. His cheeks are rosy and flushed, and his eyes red-rimmed, and he's never looked this pretty before. It barely takes one stroke of Ghost's fist down his cock before he comes, hard, gasping for air.
Johnny opens his mouth just in time, whining and moaning and begging even as Simon covers his face in his load, pearlescent and thick where it lands, most of it on his cheeks, some clumping his lashes together, some in his hair. Some in his mouth, where Simon watches that throat work again, swallowing his spend down open-mouthed, moaning at the taste like it's the best he's ever had.
Simon groans as he comes down, thighs trembling and his left toe twitching, drunk on pleasure and Johnny. Johnny, who pulls himself up from the ground with a rough grunt, leans his warm body into Simon's, heavy and broad-shouldered, all the right kinds of sweaty, and smelling like sex.
Nuzzles into the crook of his neck, smears cum all over him. Simon doesn't mind, not when Johnny kisses him there, bites down just a little.
"Gonnae have tae carry me home, baby," he mumbles. "Fuckin'— took it outtae me, dinnae ken how much longer I couldae made it with that batterin' ram down my throat without actually fuckin' croakin'."
And Simon laughs, soft and quiet, and kisses Johnny's cheek.
"Did so good for me, sweetheart," he says, his own voice the softest he has ever heard it. "Sorry for—"
"Stop apologisin, ye geezer." Soap leans his head back to fixate him earnestly. "Fuckin' loved it, alright?"
Simon's heart is all warm and out of rhythm.
"Alright," he says. Takes Soap's hands and drags him along, slinging an arm around his shoulder to keep him up like his own legs aren't fucking weak. Stopping him just before they step out of the alley. Closing his hand around Johnny's jaw, tilting his face into the light. Chuckling.
"Made a right mess of ya," he says, swipes his fingers through the drying spend that covers Soap's cheeks, and watches Soap's eyes go dark when he feeds it to him, two gentle fingers pressing past his abused lips. A soft, breathy moan.
"Taste fucking good, Si," Soap sighs. "Little sad ye didnae come in my mouth proper."
"Mhm," Ghost grunts, bends closer to lick his own spend from Johnny's cheek. "Tastes better off your skin, sweetheart."
He swipes more fingers through the mess, can't resist rubbing some of it into Johnny's freckled skin. To make it feel like he won't even be able to wash it off. Like he'll belong to Simon forever.
"Daftie," Soap says, fond and smiling, looking every bit as love-sick as Simon feels. He tries to rub his face against Simon's chest, clean the rest of the mess, but Simon's iron grip keeps him at an arm's length.
"Oi!" Simon complains. "This is a good fucking shirt, lad. Better not fuckin' stain it, don't know how many more washes it'll hold. Fallin' apart at the seams, it is."
Soap wrinkles his nose.
"Ye were nae gonnae wash tha' rag after ye wore it tae a fuckin' concert?"
Ghost shrugs.
"I'll air it out. Good as new."
Soap barks a laugh.
"Yer fuckin' rank, d'ye know tha', Si?"
"Says the man with cum in his hair," Simon retorts, then laughs at the way Johnny runs his hands through his curls like he could get rid of the dried, sticky residue. "Don't panic, love. I'll wash it out for ya when we're home, yeah?"
He doesn't let himself linger on the way his heart feels ablaze when Soap doesn't reject the mention of home.
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Chapter 8 ⮜ ♦ ⮞ Chapter 10
forgot to post this on here apparently lol have a treat.
if u wanna be on the taglist just lmk in comments or reblogs!
Rating: Explicit
Wordcount: 5.4k
Summary: Yeah remember that panic attack before they got horny again? Aftermath. But also they get horny again.
CW: panic attack (mention), parental abuse (mention), somonophilia (mention), oral, light degradation, praise kink, deep throat, still public oops
♦ My Masterlist • If you prefer AO3 ♦
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘💀🧼⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Chapter 8: Martyr (Waves)
"Oi, no fuckin' stealin'!"
Soap pushes Simon's hand away, laughs at the face he makes under the mask. "Ye cannae even eat those all covered up, Jesus, Simon. Thought ye were supposed tae be patient."
"Food's not a joking matter, Johnny," Simon says earnestly.
"Well, ye shouldae ordered yer own then, instead'a mashed!" Soap pops another fry into his mouth and stares Simon down. He's not backing down from this, he has fought for (ordered) and earned (let Simon pay for) these fries. Ghost wrinkles his nose, throws a glance over his shoulder and tugs his mask off, stuffing his mouth with a spoonful of mashed potatoes in the same second.
"Greedy bastart, ye are," Soap mumbles. His heart flutters embarrassingly at the way Simon's eyes go dark, and how they slide down to rest on his mouth. He licks his lips and blinks up at Simon through his lashes. Sucks his fingers into his mouth to lick the salt and grease off and definitely isn't thinking about what else he wants his mouth stuffed with.
"Sure am," Simon says, and his voice gets so deliciously husky that Soap almost chokes on his fries. "Jealous, too. Wouldn't believe it, I know. So well adjusted, usually."
Soap snorts, and lets him take another fry.
"Most well-adjusted person I know, Sir."
"Doesn't bode well for your friend circle, Johnny."
Ghost's eyes crinkle, and Soap is so used to only having those to go off of, but he too is greedy. Staring at Simon's mouth, at his teeth that are visible through the gap in his lip, at the way the scars pull on the corners of his cheeks when he chews. How pink his lips are, and chapped, and how Soap wants to lick at them.
It's been a quiet meal so far, and they're the only guests left in this chippy. Would have barely taken five minutes of walking to get here, if Simon hadn't kept pushing Soap up against various walls. If Soap hadn't pulled him down to leave more bruises along the column of his pale neck. If they had been able to stop touching each other at all. But they hadn't, and so the walk had taken closer to twenty minutes, Soap's lips brittle from this much kissing, red from Simon's blood, leaking from his split lip where Soap bit down too hard.
Kissing him might be Soap's favourite thing in the world. Always knew it would be. Didn't think he'd ever get to, and now it's an addiction. He wants to lean over and kiss Simon right now, right on his crooked nose.
There's a scar running over it, and not an inch of it that's straight, and that's fair, there are at least four separate instances where it got broken that Soap was present for, and he'd wager it was broken many times before that. Wonder the man can still even fucking breathe. Speaking of which… Soap huffs a deep breath himself in preparation.
He pushes another fry into his mouth, trying to stall for just a moment longer, to live in this peacefulness, the quiet contentment. To stare at Simon's happy face that's tinted green under the neon lights, and not fuck it up. God, he wishes he had a cigarette right now, all their good talks have happened late at night, just the two of them with the rest of the world asleep. That's what it felt like, anyways.
Fuck, this is gonna be uncomfortable. Soap bites his lip.
"Si, d'ye… ye wannae talk about what happened earlier?"
Ghost knits his brow, pale eyebrows barely visible in the bright light, and Soap almost waves him off when Simon stares at him for a few uncomfortable seconds without answering. Then—
"What?"
"What happened. Earlier." Soap enunciates every syllable, even though it's not really funny. They don't talk about this shit. Not ever. Not when they share a room, or even a bed, and one of them wakes up drenched in sweat and screaming. They don't talk about it, and it works fine, and when it gets real bad they beat each other up about it. Always worked so far. Bruises for Soap to press on until they fade. Split lips that Simon sucks his own blood from just to spit it at him, all the nightmares long forgotten.
Certainly had no reason to change that, up until… until Simon let Soap kiss him against that tree. Fuck.
Simon's eyes flick around like he's searching for an escape route. He probably is. Probably found at least three separate routes to exit by now. But he stays.
"I heard what you said, Sergeant. I mean, what exactly did you wanna talk about?" Ghost shoves another spoon of mash into his face. Always eating like he'll never get another meal, that man. He bends closer, and Soap can't help but mirror the movement. "I have a few ideas about what we could talk about, Johnny. How you came all over my thigh? How you offered to suck me off in the loo? How we—"
"Jesus, fuck off," Soap breathes, presses his hand over Simon's mouth for good measure. Simon licks at it, and that's really not fucking helping. Soap presses his legs together like that could fix his dick filling out with a speed that should not be possible after he already came twice in a night.
It's Simon, all Simon, his face, his smell, his lips beneath Soap's and the velvet and hard metal of his cock against Soap's, so fucking good he can't stop thinking about it even now. He almost gives in, almost takes the easy way out. Almost.
But they need to talk about it. Or at least he needs to make sure Simon is alright, that this was the right course of action. That he can help him if it happens again. He needs to know Simon feels safe. With him.
"Nae, none'a that, fuckin' hell." Soap shifts uncomfortably, a sliver of bare thigh sticking unpleasantly to the fake leather of the booth they're sitting in. He doesn't want to do this. He has to. Hates it, though, hates dredging this shit up, hates talking about it. Knows how it feels to sit in that shrink's office that they're sent to every year for psych eval — different shrink every year —knowing that they only pass because Price tampers with the results. None of them should be out in the field. None of them could live without it.
Simon is shovelling mash and gravy into his mouth, picture of non-concern, except he won't look at Soap when he usually won't look away. Even before all this, those warm, dark eyes always stuck on him. He could feel them, didn't let himself hope it could be like this, though. Told himself it was probably because he's one of the few people who don't get scared when The Ghost stares at them. Convenient place to rest his eyes or some shit like that. Christ, this is so hard. Why is it so fucking hard? He wants Simon to look at him again.
"Your— when we were leavin'. Are you… it's alright, we don' have tae talk about it if ye don' want tae. Jus'… wannae make sure yer alright, I s'ppose." Soap can't remember the last time words came so hard to him. Maybe when he told his mum that he was queer, choking down his sobs when he saw the way her fingers tugged at the cross around her neck, even if she still hugged him after. Knowing it would never be the same again, no matter how many times she tells him she still loves him. He presses his lips together and hopes this won't be that.
Simon still doesn't look at him, but he stops eating. Takes a deep breath, even though the air inside the place smells like stale frying oil, grease and day-old fish. The lass was just closing up when they stepped in, but welcomed them in anyways, just told them not to linger too long or she'd throw them out. Said with a grin, but Soap could tell she was dead-serious. He wants to go home, anyways, but his stomach doesn't do well with being ignored, at least not on his free time. It's different on missions, everything is.
Soap waits. Dips his fries in gravy and then doesn't eat them. Stares at his plate, then back up at Simon, then away again. And waits.
"It was nothing," Simon says finally, quietly, eyes fixed on the mountain of mash still on his plate.
"Nothing?" Soap echoes. Rubs his face. Fuck, he wishes he was better at this. Maybe he should see a shrink on the regular, but then again, they'd never let him back to work. Jesus. "Simon… tha' wasnae nothing. Like I said, we dinnae have tae talk about it, but don't ye fuckin' lie tae me."
Now, finally, Ghost does look up, and he looks… distant. Like way back when they first met. Like when he didn't know Johnny at all.
There is a crack in Johnny's heart, a fine line that runs from top to bottom, waiting for the quake that will make it shatter, and it was Johnny himself who placed the bomb that will cause its destruction. Now he's waiting for Simon to pull the trigger.
His fingers dig into the thick wool of his kilt, press into the bruises beneath it for distraction. Simon sighs.
"Nothing to talk about. I'm fine."
Soap holds up his hands in defeat, then holds out another fry as a peace offering. After a beat, Simon takes it.
"If ye say so. I trust ye, Simon."
They continue eating in silence for a few minutes, the piles of food on their plates diminishing. The ache in Soap's heart gets worse by the minute, he fucked up, he fucked it all up, Mary help him, he fucked it. Barely a few hours of happiness, and he had to go exploding all that shite over something stupid.
He shovels fries into his mouth mechanically, swallows almost without chewing. Hates himself for bringing it up. Hates himself more for being so shit at this. Hates himself for being a coward and giving in.
When Simon speaks, it's sudden but quiet, and his eyes are cast back down. He picks at the flecks of dirt and spilled gravy on the table with short, sharp fingernails.
"Was thinkin' about my da. Don't know where it came from, just… happens sometimes. Especially around people that smell like beer. Or booze in general, I suppose." He sounds bitter, and Soap bites his tongue not to ask questions. He expected a mission, a flashback, something like that. Mexico, maybe, although he doesn't know all that much about that. Something work-related, in any case, usually is. Not Simon's personal life. He never talks about that.
"Was… you looked beautiful in that crowd, you know, Johnny? Wish I had better words. Was thinkin' about how… how I wanted to be a poet when I was little, but my father… my father called me a faggot for it. Told me if that's the sort of man I wanted to be, he'd rather have a dead son than a fucking queer."
His hands are balled into tight fists, and his breaths a little too fast. Something inside Soap's chest cracks, and there is a howling animal, clawing at its cage, begging to be let out. Begging to maim and to kill the man that managed to make Simon look so broken and defeated when nothing and no one else ever has.
He is staring across the table, staring at that burn scar on Simon's right arm, too old to be from the service, the shape of a cigarette butt. Remembers the time Simon joked about the first time he broke his nose, I was… maybe eight, got a bottle to the face. Then again, who can say they got into a bar fight at eight years old, right?
Soap's heart goes all tight and heavy. What the fuck does anyone even say to that? A parent that wishes for their own child's death.
Simon looks up at him now, still distant, still so far away. Fucking unreachable across the abyss of this shitty chippy table.
"Don't pity me. Not telling you this because I want any fucking pity. Don't need it. The old man's long dead, got what he deserved." He sips on his coke. His hand is on the table, palm facing upwards, fingers uncurled. A bridge across the yawning chasm of his past. An offering. Soap takes it and says nothing.
"I was… it was all too much, you were right about that. The people and the noise… made me think of Mexico, too. Been a long time since it got so bad, but maybe that's why I don't really… don't really do this much anymore. Vicious cycle and all that."
Simon laughs bitterly, curls his fingers around Soap's hand. Traces the pad of his thumb along the edge of Soap's scars until his breath is calm and measured again.
"Anyways, damage is done. Gotta live with it. I… thank you for gettin' me outta there. Mean it."
"Any time." Soap barely feels like he is allowed to speak. It's a lot to take in. More than anyone in the world knows about Simon Riley, maybe with the exception of Price. Probably. Ghost is just a man. Soap knows this, has never treated him as if he wasn't, but there are parts of him that still can't fully believe anyone could survive what Simon has. Parts of him that think he must be more than human. Not in a bad way, just… different. To have lived through all that and dig his way out of hell, and to still have the kindness in his heart to indulge Johnny like this, just because he likes him. Jesus.
"Thanks fer tellin' me." He has to say it, at least once. Acknowledge it, somehow.
"Yeah." Simon sighs, looks up at him, and he looks… more normal now. Colour back in those pale cheeks, eyes warm again. Sealant for the crack in Johnny's heart. No trigger pushed. The bridge held.
"Christ, great fuckin' topic I picked," Soap mumbles, and Simon squeezes his hand before he lets go to dig into the rest of his potatoes. Pushes his boot between Soap's, though, their legs touching, and that helps. Maybe they can do this.
Simon's knee bumps his.
"Got a hand for the pleasant things in life, Sergeant."
Soap grins. Hesitates at the words on the tip of his tongue, then says them anyways. Normalcy, right? And this one is just too easy.
"… and here I thought it was yer hand I felt wrapped around my co-"
"Jesus, Johnny."
Now, Simon is blushing, cheeks aflame in the too-bright lights of this rundown chippy that does, Soap has to admit, make excellent fish'n'chips. He shoves the last of his fries into his mouth before they go entirely cold.
"I'm not sorry," he says defiantly, half a smile on his face as he watches Simon, bent over his plate like he is, like there is any way he can hide the charming blush that makes all the scars in his face seem even paler. Soap wants to kiss all of them.
"Didn't think you fuckin' would be," Simon mutters. Soap snorts and lets him eat.
It's an easier quiet now. Peaceful, and lighter. Soap presses his calf into Simon's, and jumps when a voice pipes up.
"Everything alright with you two lads?" The owner — her name plate reads 'Finnoula' — is coming towards them with fast, assertive steps. Simon puts his mask back on with practiced motions, and Soap smiles at Finnoula with his most charming expression.
"Aye, just finished up, ta!"
Finnoula nods, and whisks their plates away before Soap can say anything else, and she's off again, loading the dishwasher, wiping down surfaces. Throwing them a pointed look.
"We should get outta here," Soap murmurs in Simon's direction, who just nods and slides out from behind the table. Simon's fingers intertwine with Johnny as he passes him, casually, like they have been doing this for ages, and Soap's heart stumbles in his chest. Christ alive. This doesn't seem like a thing he could ever get used to.
"Have a good one!" he calls toward the counter as Simon drags him out onto the street.
"Cheers, you two have a good night now!"
Soap hears Finnoula mumble something else under her breath, and has barely stepped foot on the pavement when she slams the door shut behind them and he hears the key turn in its lock. He stares over at Simon, who looks just as stunned as he does.
And breaks out into laughter.
"Jesus, a second more and the lass wouldae swept us out with her broom," he wheezes, holding on to Simon's hand for dear life, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes with his other. "Didnae think she was quite so eager tae close or I wouldnae have bothered her, we couldae gotten all that tae take away, fuckin' Christ."
Ghost's eyes wrinkle at the edges and get all warm. Johnny's stomach flips. Simon's smiling.
"Get a meal here every time I'm in town, which — in her defence — isn't that often, but still. Most people are… not subtle about recognising me. I don't think she even knows I've been here before."
"Must love that," Soap quips, pulls Simon closer. "Awkward fuck, ye are. Wouldnae talk tae anyone if ye could help it, would ye?"
"Probably not." Simon shrugs. "Like talkin' to you, though."
Another admission, just like that, said like it's nothing. Soap's heart is so full it aches, bursting at the seams.
"Didn't like Oscar." Soap quirks his brow, didn't actually mind it. Liked how possessive it made him, how—
"Who the fuck is Oscar?"
"Oh the- the lad from the venue, the smoker?" Soap tilts his head. "Jesus, ye were nae listenin' at all, were ye?"
"Nah," Ghost says, and all of a sudden, his mouth is uncovered, and so close to Johnny's. "Was mostly paying attention to you, sweetheart."
"Mhm." Soap swallows thickly, leans in. Waits for Simon to close the distance, but he doesn't. "Jealousy was a good look on ye, I have tae admit tha'."
"Jealous? Who says I was jealous?" Ghost's eyes are heated, focused on Johnny's mouth like there is nothing else in the world. "He could never give you what I can."
"Sweet Jesus—"
"Couldn't have made you feel like I did, right?" Simon's mouth travels down the column of Soap's neck, leaving burning kisses and searing bites in it's wake. He clicks his tongue, strokes his thumb along Soap's cheek. "Fucking Oscar. As if there was ever a chance I would let anyone else take you from me."
"Like I'd ever want tha' anyways," Soap breathes. Buries his hot face in the crook of Simon's neck. "Christ, ye ken I wouldnae want anyone else, right? Ken tha' I would choose ye over anyone else? Yer all I've been wantin' fer so fuckin' long, Simon."
Simon's lips move along his jaw, his hands gripping Soap's waist tight, but Soap feels him shake anyway.
"Careful, Johnny," Simon mumbles. "Gonna make me think about what it might be like to keep you all to myself."
Soap laughs, disbelieving he still needs to fucking spell it out. Daftie.
"'s exactly what I want, doll." Words almost swallowed by the soft, scarred skin of Simon's neck, but he hears them, Soap can tell. Watches Simon's eyes go wide and soft when he tilts his head back, exposes his vulnerable throat. "Ye know there's nothin' I wouldnae do tae get tae have ye, now that I've found out ye want me back? Nothin' ye could do tae make me want ye less?"
Simon closes his eyes for a moment. He is breathing heavy, but his body is solid against Soap's when he drags him across the street, just around the corner. Dark alley, how cliché. Not that Soap's in any position to complain, nor does he want to, not when Simon crowds in close, pulls Soap with him as he leans back against dark red bricks, all hard muscle and soft smiles and want when Johnny presses closer eagerly.
"Not even all the war crimes, Johnny, really? No fuckin' moral compass on ya." Simon laughs, quiet and dark and a little sad.
"Don't think ye take any more pleasure in killin' than I do," Soap whispers, more serious than he should be with his cock chubbing up. "And ye know I do, sometimes. Ye think yer the only one no' passin' fuckin' psych eval? I'm just as fucked in the heid as ye are, doll. I'd tear a man open tae bring ye his heart if he looked at ye wrong."
Maybe this is too much, too fast, but Soap doesn't think it is, not when he blinks up at Ghost. Simon looks… hungry.
"What else?" he demands, voice muted and rough as a cat's tongue.
Soap is fucking rock hard in a heartbeat, once again pressed up against Simon's body, but the roll of his hips is slower this time, he's not chasing, his world not tinted in desperation as much. Yet.
"I think about ye orderin' me tae kill while I get off sometimes," Soap admits, cheeks burning. Doing that in the privacy of his own room is embarrassing enough, admitting it feels somehow worse. Like that makes it real, and not the cum staining his sheets when he thinks about Ghost's rough commands from whatever op they were on last. In the head, Johnny, on my mark. Drop him. Good hit… My, my, all covered in blood, Sergeant. Lookin' good… Beautiful work on that hostile, saw the knife. That mine? … Saw your work on that guard, nice clean cut. Doin' my proud, Johnny.
It's not even about the praise. It's… a little about the praise. But also about Ghost watching him, not to make sure he does his job, but to admire his work. Remembering enough to compliment him on it later, sometimes. Feeling a life snuffed out under his fingers while Ghost growls into his ear what a good take down that was. Christ alive.
Simon is staring at him, expression unreadable but his eyes ravenous.
"You get off to…"
"…you?" Soap licks into his mouth, revelling in how pliant Simon becomes against him, how soft his lips go when he lets him in. "All the time, baby."
And Simon moans. He's not as loud as Soap is, takes a little more care, always does. But it's still a noise in the night, clearly audible, making Soap's dick throb. Fuck, he didn't think he'd get hard again so fast. Something about Simon… Soap leans in closer, slides his hands up Simon's sides until he feels him shiver, rubs his thumbs over the peaks of his nipples, so clearly visible through the shirt.
"Ye ever get off tae me, LT?" he asks, voice sweet and needy, blinking up at Simon through his lashes. "Ever think about me when ye—"
"—yes." It's too fast, too easy. A bruise blooming, begging to be pressed, and Soap presses.
"How often, Simon?"
There is a pause, where everything is darkness and huffed breaths and familiar bodies urging closer, tongues sliding together, hot and needy, until Soap almost forgets his question. Almost begs Simon to let him get off again. But not yet.
"How often?" he orders again, pinches down harder on Simon's nipples. Ignores Simon's hands on his ass as best he can. Simon presses his face into Johnny neck and bites the bruises he's left there until Johnny is dizzy with it, blood rushing in his ears.
"All the time," Simon admits quietly.
"Fuck." Soap grits his teeth, grinds his cock into Simon's, feels him getting hard again as well, his hands finding their way beneath Soap's kilt, digging into the meat of his ass, and Soap fucking needs something filling his hole, but Simon lets go before Johnny can ask. Slides his hand up Soap's chest instead, tugs at one of his piercings until Soap hisses and whines and pushes his pecs into Simon's hands, silently begging for more.
"So noisy," Simon scolds, before he slots his lips against Soap's again, then pulls back before Soap can deepen it. "Should really fill that mouth of yours, give it somethin' better to do than tryin' to order me around."
And maybe they shouldn't do this here, maybe they've risked enough for one night, but Soap can't fucking help it. He's on his knees the second he thinks there might be a chance Simon would actually let him, clawing at his zipper, pushing his face into the hot line of Simon's cock that strains against the front of his cargos. Breathing him in, still so deliciously sweaty, and Soap wants all of it in his mouth. The sweat from the apex of his thighs, his fucking balls. He wants to be stuffed until he can't breathe anymore, says as much without any words when he gets Simon's zipper open and sinks down on his cock the second he gets it out.
"Fuckin'— good pup," Simon groans, lets his head drop back against the wall, and if that is the highest praise Soap ever gets he will fucking take it. Pulls off for a moment, though, to lick at the pink, flushed head, run his tongue along the metal bars so he'll know what that felt like when they slip down his throat.
He scratches at Simon's thighs through the fabric, wishes it was his skin, wants to see if his nails leave dark red marks on his legs like they did on his arms, wants to rub his cheek against the soft hair of his thighs that he's only ever seen matted with blood. Simon's hand is in his hair, scratching at his scalp, though he lets Johnny wander as he pleases. For now.
Soap feels unhinged, like a rabid dog, wishes he had soft muscle to bite down on, settles on licking along Ghost's length again before he takes the head into his mouth and sucks. Listens to all the small, delicious sounds that fall from Simon's lips, how his breath hitches when Soap takes him a little deeper.
He has always loved this, being on his knees for someone, getting exactly what he wants while they get to pretend they're in charge. Loves sucking on something, even better when it's cock, loves making them feel good with just his mouth and his tongue. Revels in it when it gets hard to breathe, how raw and honest it is. He lets Simon slide deeper, until the first rung of the ladder drags across his lips, heavy and warm, metallic taste mixing with the salt of Simon's sweat and bitter musk.
Soap opens his eyes without ever having realised he'd shut them, but he wants to see Simon now. Simon, who is staring at him like he hung the stars, moon and sun all by himself, his cheeks flushed, his face still uncovered, teeth shining white through the gap in his lips, hands grasping loosely at Johnny's mohwak.
"Fuckin' hell," he says, voice rough like gravel. "You need it bad, Johnny, eh?"
Soap almost doesn't pull off, almost just nods, because this is just so fucking good, and he can see Simon's abs clench where his shirt is rucked up, but he also needs Simon to know how much he loves this. And how much he wants him to keep talking. So he lets Simon's cock slip from his mouth, kisses the head, just because he can. Hooks his fingers into the waistband of Simon's trousers.
"Fucking love it, Sir," he says. Likes how rough his voice already is, and he hasn't even done nearly as much as he wants to. Hasn't even had him down his throat. "Please… let me get ye off like tha'. Wannae taste it."
Simon makes a noise like a wounded animal, his fingers tightening their grip in Johnny's hair.
"Open up then, sweetheart," he says, wrapping his fist around his cock, their glide eased by Johnny's saliva, and Johnny needs that cock back in his mouth right fucking now. Needs to know what it feels like to swallow him down entirely, those rungs pressing against the inside of his throat. He shudders, his neglected cock straining below the heavy wool, but there is no way he'll give up his grip on Simon's thighs. He can come like this. Probably. He's pretty sure, spurned on by the steadily growing puddle of precum he can feel between his legs, his jock long since soaked through.
"Open up," Simon says again, a little impatiently this time, and oh fuck, he shouldn't even have to ask once. Soap opens, sticks his tongue out for good measure. A silent apology.
"Good lad," Simon grins. Bends forward.
Spits in Johnny's open, waiting mouth.
Johnny moans, hips twitching, cock rubbing against wool that provides delicious fucking friction. God, he's never gonna get the stains out, but it's so fucking worth it.
He doesn't close his mouth, but swallows anyways. Watches Simon's eyes darken, pupils tracking the way his throat must constrict.
"Please, Sir," he says then, blinks up at Simon through his lashes, sticks his tongue out even further. Simon exhales, a slow, steady breath through his nose like he does before he takes a shot with his sniper rifle. Johnny's cock twitches. So does Simon's, locked in his own tight fist. Simon spits again, and Soap thinks he could probably come from this alone if he had something better to rub off against.
A thick boot nudges between his spread knees.
There's no fuckin' way—
"Take what's on offer, sweetheart. Ain't got all night," Simon grunts, and this is too fucking good, just like in the field when they read each other's minds, comms mostly decoration by now, only good for innuendos and annoying the Captain.
Soap scrambles, lifting up just enough to let Simon slot his boot underneath, moans when his cock rubs through the thin fabric of his jock against the thick laces of the boot.
"Jesus— thank ye, Sir— fuck— fuck, thank ye," he mumbles, grinds his hips forward, head still tilted back so he can look up at Simon who watches with wide eyes, cheeks still blushing red in the low light, fist gripping himself so tight Johnny can see how his knuckles go white. He pushes his face towards Simon's groin again, mouth still open.
"Let me, please," he whispers, flicking his tongue at the part of Simon's cock he can reach, tastes his own cold spit and Simon, and he needs him in his mouth right fucking now. Simon just nods, still wide-eyed as a doe, the most out of control Soap has ever seen him look despite his calm orders.
Soap doesn't take his time this time around, swallows him unceremoniously as far as he can manage, third rung pushing past his greedy lips. Barely takes any effort to open his throat, he wants this so fucking bad, more than he wants to savour it. There'll be plenty of time for that later, he can push his flight back, there is nothing in the world that's better than this. All he wants right now is to make Simon feel good.
It feels like it might never end, Simon's cock so deliciously thick and long, a little much but that just means it's perfect, and then Soap swallows him down, lips pressed up against the cold metal of Simon's zipper, cock lodged entirely in his throat. He can't breathe like this, can't fucking think like this, but he doesn't need to. He can still taste Simon's spit on his tongue.
Simon stares at him, eerily still, strands of Soap's hair wrapped around his fingers.
"You took it," he says, and he sounds dazed. Like he's in a dream. "Fucking— fuckin' hell, Johnny. Fuck, you are… good fucking boy. God, I knew you were greedy, still didn't think you'd— oh fuck—"
He chokes when Soap swallows again, presses the palm of his own hand up against his throat, feels Simon lodged so deep. Pulls off a little, slowly, so he can breathe, then sinks right back down again. Stays. And waits for orders.
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Chapter 7 ⮜ ♦ ⮞ Chapter 9
here ya go bit late sorry about that academia got my ass. again, if u wanna be on the taglist just lmk in comments or reblogs!
Rating: Explicit
Wordcount: 5.2k
Summary: It gets dire before it gets a whole lot better. EVERYTHING happens in this chapter. Lol. Almost. Mind the tags, not all of them are sexy.
CW: panic attack, parental abuse, simon riley comic backstory, anxiety, talking him through it and by it i mean a panic attack, dirty talk, frotting, orgasm denial, cum eating, soap has an oral fixation.
♦ My Masterlist • If you prefer AO3 ♦
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Chapter 7: Drowning Therapy
Johnny is radiant.
Ghost is… not really the poetic type. Likes to read, sure, but those words aren't his, they are someone else's. He is just the observer. Wouldn't know how to place them so gently, where to put them on his tongue. How to shape his lips to make them ring true. No, Ghost has never been good with words, his father punched that desire out of him at the ripe age of seven, when he first found a poem of clumsy children's words hidden under Simon's pillow, written in red crayon. A poem about the sun on a bruise, and how it makes Simon feel warm both inside and outside. He still remembers every word of it.
His father did not like the thought of having a poet for a son. That's not what a man does, you little faggot. I better not catch you with shit like this again or you won't be able to use those fingers ever again, you hear me? Won't have a fuckin' fairy for a son, I'll beat it outta ya if I have to.
Ghost shivers at the memory, unwelcome and long since pushed aside, trampled down, buried under much worse. Better a faggot than a dead cunt, eh dad?
Not that his old man dying changed much. Everything still went to shit, and Ghost is still fucked up. Barely a man, barely fucking human most days. No amount of poems he didn't write changed that. No amount of death ever fixed that, not even his own in a deep grave at the burning ass end of the world. Buried so deep he couldn't breathe, pressure on all sides, dirt in his eyes, in his mouth, up his nose, and he couldn't fucking—
He gasps for air, in the middle of this crowd that doesn't smell like the dirt back then at all but feels like it still, people squeezing him, touching him, sweaty skin sliding against his own. Someone's elbow lands against his spine, and Ghost twitches, tries to reach for a knife that isn't where it should be, because he can't do this, can't fucking do this, it's too much, too loud where it used to be quiet, too warm where it used to be freezing, and he needs to get the fuck out right now. The doors are right there, blurred, spinning, impossible to get to, and he can't see properly, needs to breathe but can't, not in this crowd of strangers that crawl around him like ants, trying to get where he wishes he already was, outside, alone. He can feel his breaths getting shallower, can feel himself blink hectically, and no amount of things he can see, hear, feel, smell, or taste can pull him back, he's lost his tether, floating without air, and where is—
Radiant fingers find his own, so much warmer but no less scarred. Simon's head is still swimming, but he grips Johnny like a goddamn lifeline, rubs his thumb over the burn scar that covers the back of Johnny's left hand. Follows him blindly, because Johnny always has his six, Johnny knows where he is going, Johnny knows where it's safe.
He tries to breathe in as they step outside, choking on the first inhale of clear night air that burns in his lungs more than cigarette smoke ever has. His chest feels tight, more so when he looks at Johnny. How beautiful he is.
The voice in his head sounds suspiciously like his father's again, telling him all the things he used to tell him when he was little. Worthless, you are, boy, do you hear me? Fucking worthless, don't you come complainin' to me again when they beat you up. You're weak, can't even defend yourself? You should be ashamed, you're no son of mine. Nothing good comes to the weak, boy, nothing good happens unless you take it. And you never will, frail little fairy cryin' like that. You deserve nothin'— nothin' good. Spit flying into Simon's face, breath stinking of lager, his backhand only adding to the bruises and cuts on young Simon Riley's body.
And even now —he's right. Simon doesn't deserve Johnny. Doesn't deserve any of this.
Soap tilts his head, regards him steadily, his face familiar even through the static encroaching on Ghost's vision.
"C'mon," Soap says, doesn't wait for an answer, just drags Simon's loose-limbed body with him, out of the venue, away from the people and into the night, around the corner to where the comfort of darkness still lingers even next to the floodlights at the gates. Simon does his best to breathe, doesn't want to ruin this — again — doesn't want to need Johnny's help — again — doesn't want to lose control — again.
He doesn't know how to fuckin' do this.
There is a hand on his jaw, not squeezing but cradling, and a warm, familiar arm wrapped around his middle, gently pushing him back against cold bricks. A face with scratchy stubble that presses into him insistently, and he knows this feeling, knows who this is even if he can't see him— when did he close his eyes?
Simon pries his lids open, is met with nothing but shadow and the silhouette of Johnny moving against him before he stills, clinging to Ghost like Soap is the one who needs an anchor. Simon's shallow breaths are louder than they have any right being in the dead of night, still too fast, and his brain still feels fuzzy, but he's got Johnny, and Johnny's got him. Is he—
"Y'alright?" Ghost's voice sounds rough even to his own ears, but he pays it no mind, single-minded focus on Johnny's well-being. If he is—
"Aye." The whites of Johnny's eyes are the only thing glinting in the low light, then his teeth when he speaks again, tilts his head up to stare at Simon, arms still wrapped firmly around him. "And you, Si?"
Hm. What about him indeed. What the fuck is wrong with him? Ghost feels himself go tense, muscles contracting all at once when he starts to feel his own body again. Too much too fast too heavy. Air around him heavy like a vice, vision narrowing down to Johnny—
He can tell Soap pulls back a little, and the loss of his warmth is more than he can bear. He wants to say something, reassure him, sitrep, only not through comms, they've done this a million times over, but his voice won't come, so he just shrugs. Looks away, can't look Soap in the eye when he stares at him like that, like he can see every single thought Ghost has ever had written on his fucking forehead.
Simon's eyes are getting used to the darkness, and he can tell Soap is frowning, his dark brows drawn together. Chewing on his lip. Looking worried.
"Somethin' I did?"
Ghost closes his eyes. Hates himself for not having the words, because it's not Johnny's fault and he deserves to know that. Deserves someone who can tell him that in no uncertain terms instead of just shaking his head like a fucking coward while gasping for air like a fish out of water.
"Good." Soap sounds a little more confident, voice less shaky. "Alright if I keep touchin' ye?"
Ghost hesitates. Listens inside himself, finds that he doesn't mind the warm hands on his bare skin if they are Johnny's. He nods, presses his lips together. Makes himself take in all the free space around him, all the air he can breathe in, all the directions he can go. Not being crushed, just held.
He isn't used to any of this.
"Okay." Soap considers him, rubs his warm hands down the gooseflesh on Simon's arms. "Ye take the time ye need, alright? Go' all quiet on me when we were on our way out. I ken it was a lot, shows always are, all those people in these tiny feckin' spaces drive me nuts. Never feels safe, right? 's a lot. Even fer me, sometimes. D'ye know there was one time—" he interrupts himself abruptly, trails off for a second, then fixes Ghost with those warm fucking eyes again, like the sun trapped inside the ocean. "Helpin' if I talk or d'ye reckon some silence might be better fer ye?"
Ghost's chest is still so fucking tight. Why the fuck is Johnny doing this? He should leave— everyone does. It's too much effort for too little reward. There is nothing Ghost can give in return. He's not… not worth all this.
He shrugs again. Soap just nods.
"Right. I'll jus'… tell ye the story, right? Can interrupt me at any time if it gets tae much or ye get bored." He winks at him, the cheeky little fuck, and some weight shifts off of Ghost's chest, even though he is still sucking in air like he is desperate for it. Better now that it only smells like Johnny and fallen leaves.
Soap lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag.
His other hand settles on Simon's hip, resting there. Simon focuses on just that, that tiny little speck of connection that tethers him, grounds him in reality. A nexus, earth to Simon Riley. Feels the warmth of Johnny's palm through the thin layer of fabric and wishes they were closer. He pulls at Soap's hand with shaking fingers, guides him underneath his shirt, until Soap rests the flat of his palm over Simon's belly, warm and rough and perfect. Simon breathes, slow and deliberate, focuses on raising Soap's hand with each deep inhale, presses his stomach into the palm of his hand.
Good. Better.
Soap smiles a little, tucked tight into the corners of his mouth. Takes another drag of his cigarette.
"Doin' so good, doll. Keep breathin'." He rubs a little circle over Simon's belly, then stills his hand again.
"Right, I probably need a whole fuckin' pack of fags fer this feckin' story… So, there was this one time Gaz took me tae see some fuckin' band way back when. Think tha' mighta been before ye even joined the taskforce, actually, cannae remember, maybe we were just too fuckin' scared tae ask ye… Anyways, he drags me tae this show — no' my taste at all, ye ken, we agree on many things, on the important things I reckon, but music? Fuck me, man's got terrible taste. Hate it when Price drives 'n lets him pick the music, Cap's got his favourite 'n I go' no problem with tha', I sure got mine, but I dinnae think it's fair that we should suffer more fer it. 's jus' no' right… Right, so Gaz hauls my sorry arse tae the show in bumfuck nowhere because the lad couldnae find anyone else tae go with him — is it any wonder, got friends out the arse but thank fuck non'a them cunts like the shit he listens tae — an' I'm the one fuckin' muppet who wasnae up on the tree by count of three, so he decides I 'secretly wannae go', fuckin' gyte he is. Or maybe he jus' thought tha' I'm a good friend, better than any'a these other bastards, who's tae say, right? An' I am, I'm a feckin' good friend when it comes down tae it, I love the guy, but sweet fuck was I sorry I didnae say No tae tha' specific service'a friendship. So I was standin' there, stuck between some broad tha' smelled like a fairy dumped a bucket'a glitter perfume out over a pile'a compost covered in shite — like honestly it was right fuckin' mingin' — an' the boniest fuckin' lad ye ever did see. The wee fuck kept rammin' his spindly elbow right intae my ribs and I had tha' bruise from the op before, think it was right after tha' mission in Russia where tha' fandan emptied his whole fuckin' chamber intae my armour plate, whole side was black an' blue fer the next feckin' month — ah, like I said, I dinnae think ye were there fer tha' —"
"Johnny." Simon's voice is working again, husky with the way breathing is still a little hard, and oddly thick in his throat, but it's better. Johnny's name is a word. Maybe the most important one he knows.
He closes his hand over Soap's, still warm over his belly, still rising and falling with his breaths. Soap's mouth audibly closes for a second, jaws clicking, eyes wide.
"Si?"
Simon carefully raises his hand, threads his fingers into the long strands of Soap's mohawk. Tugs gently, with no force at all, and his chest is tight for a different reason when Johnny goes without complaint, tilts his head back to expose his throat and grins up at him with bright teeth and brighter eyes.
"You're a shit storyteller, anyone ever tell you that?" Ghost mumbles, presses his face into the crook of Johnny's neck and breathes him in until he's dizzy with it.
"I'm a fantastic storyteller, I'll have ye know." Johnny's hands come up to rest on his shoulders, not pushing him away but digging into the meat and muscle instead like he wants to drag himself even closer. Like he wants to climb into Simon's body. Simon would let him. Would rip his heart out to make space in his ribcage, let Johnny settle right there, keep him nice and close. Safe.
He takes another deep breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
"You get sidetracked thrice in every sentence, if ya can even call those run-ons that," he observes dryly, feels those sticky bits in his lungs dissolve at the way he can tell Johnny's cheeks rise when he smirks into Ghost's hair. "I don't even know where the fuck this story was supposed to be headed—"
"—I was gettin' there—"
"—fuckin' doubt that." It's muffled, his face still buried against Johnny's neck, and the air inside his mask is too stale, too warm, too used up. It's just them, nobody can see, nobody's even around. He can—
Ghost pulls the mask off before he can panic again like a fucking idiot. And now he can breathe properly, most importantly, he can smell Johnny, Johnny's sweat, Johnny's neck, can taste him, too, and he does. Tongue flicking out to lick at the sensitive skin below his ear, lapping up the salt, relishing the sweet taste of his skin beneath, groaning, pulling Johnny closer until his whole body is flush with Simon's. He closes his eyes for a moment.
"Don't deserve you, Johnny."
"Wha', as a punishment? I'm sure ye did a lo' more fucked up shite than even I know about, ye deserve much worse than me." Johnny's voice is muted, his face smothered by the thin fabric of Simon's shirt. Ghost tugs on his hair a little harder until Soap looks up at him again, with wide eyes and those pink fucking lips.
"Not what I meant and you know it. Fuck you."
"Aye, isn't that the plan? Ye promised me, after all." Soap's eyes are warm inspite of all the blue, and he pushes his head closer, cranes his neck like he hungers for Ghost's lips as much as Simon hungers for his, cigarette long discarded and forgotten on the ground. "I ken wha' ye meant, ye numpty. Isnae true, ye ken? Ye deserve good things. Me bein' the best'a all things, of course."
Ghost can't help snorting.
"Of course."
"Best ye'll ever get, anyways. Now get down here and kiss me before I climb ye like a fuckin' tree. Ye know I will." It's a threat, but not really, and Ghost is more than happy to give in. Leans forward and slots his lips over Johnny's like he was always meant to do this, easy in a way nothing else ever is.
Johnny pushes into the kiss, his tongue hot and wet in Ghost's mouth, and still it's easier to breathe like this than it was five minutes ago. More life in the air Johnny has already used up than there is anywhere else in the world. Johnny opens his mouth more, lets Ghost in, pushes his broad body into Simon's like he means to pin him to the wall, and Simon lets him. He's safe, always safe with Johnny.
"Fuck, jus' like these two cunts I saw earlier," Soap mumbles against his lips, bites down for a split second, and Ghost shivers. "When I was lookin' fer a place tae smoke— eatin' each other up, they were, Jesus."
A tremble runs down Simon's spine when Soap pushes his cold hand under his shirt to join the other, deliciously cool against Ghost's burning skin. The rough pads of his fingers glide along his scars, follow the long tail of the Y that bisects Ghost's chest until Soap is cupping his pecs, pushing them together, rubbing his thumbs over his hard nipples, direct line to his cock that swells without warning, desire flooding Simon's chest until he's buried beneath the waves.
He moans into Soap's mouth, didn't mean to let himself be so pliant, meant to do this to Soap instead, keep control, but he can't say no now, it feels way too fucking good to even consider pushing Johnny away.
At least he found his words again. Can breathe again. Make Johnny happy again.
"Yeah, those two get you hard?" He grins when he feels Soap shudder against him — he's so easy to rile up, easy to read as well. Especially for Ghost, who has spent months studying his every move, every miniscule expression on his pretty face. "Fuckin' knew it, you little degenerate. Watching strangers make out do it for ya? Or were you just wishing it was you in their place?"
Fucking bullseye. Soap's hips pivot forward, and finally, there is some friction for Ghost to rub himself against, his own hips coming off the wall to meet Soap's without any reservations. Christ, he's got him wrapped around his finger, and not only does Ghost let him, not only does he give in, but he enjoys it. Soap's cock is straining against the thick wool of his kilt, so hard Ghost can feel it through all the layers, his own to match, already drooling.
"Yer a dirty old man, LT," Soap says darkly, but laughs when Ghost bites at his neck in retaliation.
"Again, I'm three fuckin' years older than you, Johnny. You got some fucking issues." Ghost is smiling, doesn't mind the pull of the scars as he does, not when Johnny licks through his split lip and into his mouth again, then pulls back to suck on his neck like he's trying to win a contest for longest lasting bruise. Not that Ghost minds. He ruts into Johnny without thought, likes feeling his cock twitch as he does, loves thinking about what he can do to him later, bend him over… or maybe not if he wants to see his face again when he cums. And he really, really does.
"You- fuck — you wanted to be in their place, Sergeant? Now's your fuckin' chance."
"Fuck," Soap grunts, pressing the length of his cock right alongside Ghost's, and he can feel him twitching hard beneath the fabric, right in fucking time with himself and fuck, that's hot. Simon wants to be inside him, wants to feel if his hole clenches as much, feel the heavy weight if Johnny's balls against his own. Wants to hurt him, just a little, see his eyes go all blank and sweet when he's lost in the pleasure Ghost brings him, maybe fuck him until he can't speak anymore, mind nice and empty except for needing Ghost again and again and again.
Soap is already panting for it now, desperate, beautiful fucking slag he is.
"Gonnae get me off again, Sir? I can fuckin'— been ready since ye put yer hands on me inside, in front'a all those people, don'— fuck, don' even think I went soft after I came, Christ."
Ghost's cock throbs at his words, and still this isn't nearly enough. Nothing will ever be enough until he's buried inside Johnny, until he can feel him writhe and squirm against him, clench around him, milking him for all he's worth with that perfect fucking hole Ghost wants to bury himself in until Johnny is leaking with him, loose and wet and still begging for more. Maybe…
He untangles his hand from Soap's hair to unzip, pulls his cock out without pulling his trousers down, wraps his fingers around himself to glide along the hard length, not tight enough to provide any real friction, just enough to tease Johnny some more. Soap moans and leans back, pupils blown so wide his eyes are black, falls to his knees, but Ghost hoists him back up, presses his lips to Johnny's ear.
"Good fuckin'— good fuckin' offer, Johnny, but I wanna— wanna come with you this time, fuck." He's breathless, moreso at the look in Johnny's eyes, hand slowing as he stares into blue. He wants to kiss him again, wants to never stop kissing him. Needs to bite him, leave marks on him, every bit of skin he can reach, until there is nothing Johnny can do without thinking of him. Johnny grins brightly.
"Feckin' bold tae assume I wouldnae come from suckin' you off, Sir."
"Fuck," Ghost hisses, has to close his fist around the base of his cock and squeeze, leaking profusely, and Soap gets that hungry look in his eyes again. Drops his hand to swipe his thumb over the head of Ghost's cock and then sucks his finger into his mouth, sighing wantonly at the taste, and Ghost can't catch a fucking break, but he needs to— "Stop. Fucking stop, Johnny, you're gonna make me—"
"Shit, LT," Soap moans, lips such a perfect O when he pulls his thumb free and presses his mouth to Ghost's again. "Oh fuck, yer so hot, doll, jus' look— yer leakin' so much, jus' let me suck ye off, I'll make it good—"
"Fuck you," Ghost groans. He can barely think, trying so goddamn hard to stave off his impending orgasm even though he is almost past the point of no return, but he wants to last, wants to know what they feel like in his hand, together, needs to hold him, needs to kiss Johnny while they come.
He flips them with practiced ease, pushing Soap up against the brick wall, tugging his kilt up and his jock to the side in one swift movement. Soap moans, loud, too loud, when his bare cock lines up with Simon's, but neither of them cares enough to stop. Ghost can't stop staring, it's not the first time he's seen Johnny's cock, but the first time he's seen it fully hard, head flushed, balls full and heavy and just as covered in hair as the rest of Johnny.
"Jesus, sweetheart."
Johnny whines, stretches out his hand to touch his straining cock, but Ghost drags the hand to his shoulder instead, quickly wraps his own fist around both of them even though they barely fit together, but that somehow makes it even better.
Soap is leaking like a fucking faucet, precum covering both of them, easing the glide of Ghost's fist, and he feels unmoored when the underside of his own cock lines up with Soap's, piercings dragging along the velvety hardness of his length.
"Fuck— shit—" he flattens himself to Soap, adamant on keeping his eyes open so he can take in the look on Soap's barely lit face, that expression of careless bliss, how his mouth hangs slightly open, how his cheeks are flushed and rosy. Radiant.
"Oh god, Si— Simon, I'm not gonna last, fuck," Johnny is panting, moaning into Simon's mouth when he kisses him again. "Fuck, really wanted tae suck ye off, please, ye have tae let me — later — can do it later, but fuck, I have tae— oh, Simon- Si, I'm gonnae—"
"Not yet," Ghost grunts, slows his strokes just a little, grips them both tight at the base, so much so it almost hurts, but Soap only moans at the feeling. "Hold on a little longer, sweetheart. Wanna enjoy this."
"The fuck do ye mean, yer not enjoyin' yerself currently, are ye?" Soap pops one eye open, sparkling with mischief, but rolls his head back when Ghost resumes stripping both their cocks, just this side of too much, too fast, too rough, too tight for a glide not even both of their eagerness can ease.
"Cheeky fuck," Ghost mumbles. Digs his canines into Johnny's neck again for good measure, right over the already blooming bruise until Johnny shudders violently against him. "Wanna feel you a little longer, yeah? See if I can make you beg for it-"
"I'm fuckin beggin', Christ alive, what else d'ye want me tae do?" God, Soap sounds fucking wrecked, panting and gasping for air as Ghost rubs the heads of their cocks together, wiping his thumb over them, spreading the precum more, sliding his piercings along Soap's pink head. He bites down on his lip, hard, licks at the blood, keeps going like this isn't torture for him just as much as it is for Johnny.
"Well, that didn't take long." Ghost sounds nonplussed, has perfected the art of it, but he knows there is a tremble in his voice, first sign of weakness, and he knows Johnny hears it too from the way his cock twitches out another stream of precum. "You always this easy, or that just for me?"
"Fer you, jus' you— fuck!" Soap keens, far too loud, but there is no way Ghost is stopping now, he's so close to getting everything he wants without even saying it, without even having to ask. Soap is so close to giving in without knowing what he's even agreeing to, and Ghost wants this. Needs it, more than he needs air to breathe, he needs Johnny, pleading, begging and crying for him, just like this. "Please, 's jus' fer you, Sir. Ye've tae—"
"—don't have to do anything, sweetheart—"
"Please— oh fuck, fuck— please, baby, please, I need tae— wannae feel ye come, please, oh god fuck I'm so fuckin' close, please, baby, let me come—"
He's babbling, barely coherent, is calling him stupid things that make Simon's chest flutter, stupid things like doll and baby, and Ghost watches him like a hawk, watches how Johnny's lashes grow darker with wetness, and there it is. A single tear, dripping from Soap's closed eyes where his lashes cast a shadow on his freckled cheeks, mixing with the sheen of sweat that covers his face, but Ghost know what he saw, and it's enough. He pushes his free hand under Johnny's shirt, thumbing over the warm metal of his piercing, tugging at his stiff nipple, and Johnny wails.
Simon can't breathe but he keeps going anyways.
"Good pup, you can come— shh, it's okay, did so good for me, let go… let go, make a mess for me, sweetheart," he pants, loosens his fist around them just enough to take away that sharp edge of pain, lets himself sink into the pleasure.
He's close, standing on the precipice, scouring the view for another tear, maybe more than one if he's really lucky. He untangles his hand from Johnny's shirt to wrap around his neck instead and squeezes, right over the bruises, and now he's got it, unhinged and panting like a dog in heat as Johnny starts to cry.
"Fuck— fuck, oh thank you, Sir, thank you— fuck, oh god, Simon— shit, Simon, don't stop, please don't—" He's babbling again, tears spilling over just as his cock does, his cum slicking Ghost's fist and then he can't hold on anymore either, moaning into Soap's needy, warm mouth as he adds his own load to Johnny's, licking the salty tears from his warm cheeks, their combined spend covering his hand until he feels it dripping from his wrist.
There is a moment of silence, huffed breaths and quiet whimpers as Johnny comes down, controlled breaths and a small, near inaudible groan as Ghost does.
"Fuckin' hell." He has to take a moment to catch his breath, has never been particularly loud when he comes, but Johnny sure seemed to fuckin' enjoy it. "Well done, Johnny. Fuck, that was… yeah. Good lad."
Soap's eyes open, wet and red-rimmed, and it's almost enough to make Ghost come again. It isenough to make him want to. But he needs… fuck, he needs a little time to recover. Probably not as long as he should, if he looks at Soap in this state any longer, shirt rucked up, bruises around his neck, his softening cock covered in Ghost's and his own cum, sticky and pearlescent as it drips down to his balls, making his dark curls stick together.
"Jesus, Simon." Soap lets out a deep breath, rubbing his cheek against Ghost's. "Yer tickin' all the right boxes, aye? Knew ye would. Nobody who's right in the fuckin' head goes tae the military, all a buncha perverted fucks we are."
Ghost chuckles, then busies himself by tucking Johnny back into his jock, disregarding his hiss at how overly sensitive he is, then his own cock back into his cargos. Fucking tactical, tension resolved, even if not for long if he's honest with himself. Goes to wipe his tacky hand on the wall, but an iron grip around his wrist stops him.
"Don' ye fuckin' dare," Soap orders, blinking up at him with those clumped-together lashes, and Ghost has never been able to resist him. "Let me taste."
"Fucking insatiable slag," Ghost says, but it comes out more fond than anything, and he readily lets Soap lick his palm clean, then the spaces between his fingers, then sucking them into his mouth one after the other until Ghost's cock twitches in a more than valiant effort to get hard again. Johnny's tongue is pink and hot, and he looks sated as he licks his lips, swallowing everything down, a little sticking to the corner of his mouth.
"You're fucking filthy, you know that?" Ghost states, but pushes his freshly cleaned hand into Johnny's hair, pulls him in to lick his lips clean, push his tongue into his mouth, taste their combined spend on his tongue himself. They kiss for a while, slow and lazy and content, no goal but to enjoy the feeling of each other, until Johnny's stomach gurgles so loudly Ghost snorts and peels away from Johnny's warm, welcoming body.
"You hungry?"
"Aye, fuckin' starvin' actually." Johnny leans back, regards him for a moment. "We could— hm. There's probably a chippy still open, right? Passed by one earlier, d'ye ken how long-?"
Ghost checks his watch, nods.
"Should be open still. Worst case we got leftovers at home, but I think they're open for another… hour, half hour or so."
Soap smiles, scratches Simon's scalp with his short nails, and fuck if that isn't a feeling he could get used to.
"Alright." Soap pushes off the wall, adjusts himself less than discreetly, and Ghost wants to bury his face between his thighs again, preferably front and back this time, take his time to work him open until he can spit into his loose hole— "Lead the way, LT."
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Chapter 6 ⮜ ♦ ⮞ Chapter 8
everybody say a big loud 'thank you lee' for being such a lovely human being. got my dedicating my porn to you 'n everything. reblooooooooooooog if you enjoy dont forget how this fucking website works
Rating: Explicit
Wordcount: 3.2k
Summary: Just hangin' out. Being normal. Getting hornier by the second.
CW: nothing new, light exhibitionism ig, heavy petting in public
♦ My Masterlist • If you prefer AO3 ♦
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Chapter 6: Flying Whales
Soap leans back against Ghost's solid body and can't help the smile that spreads on his face. Grinning like a fucking idiot, he's glad Ghost can't see him like this. The teasing would be relentless. Might still be when they get back to base and Gaz finds out. And he will find out, no doubt about that. Insightful man, sometimes annoyingly so, but in this specific case, Soap doesn't mind that much. Just means he gets to talk to someone about this. Ghost. Them. Like it's a real thing… because it is.
He didn't think he'd ever get this, all of it, any of it. Great music, good crowd (well, mostly), and Ghost so close to him he can smell his sweat and feel his heat radiate off his bare skin. Knowing what his thigh feels like between his own outside of sparring. Knowing what he sounds like purring praise, and getting worked up over Soap's mouth. Knowing what he looks like on his knees. The Ghost on his fucking knees for him, getting hard for him, needy and desperate to put his mouth on Johnny. Soap will never get over that sight. Or over the memory of the metal bars that get the privilege to be touching Ghost's dick all the time. Never wanted to be a piece of metal more than he did when his fingers felt them.
It's so tempting to turn around and taste him again like he wants. Fuck the orders. Suck bruises into his neck, lick up his sweat, bite him just to know what his blood tastes like. Make some real pretty eyes up at him, and if he plays his cards right, he could have Simon's bare fingers in his mouth in no time. Or Simon's pretty mouth on his own chest, moaning into his skin as he sucks Soap's tits. Fuck.
He knows the ordering him around might just be Ghost feeling out how far Soap is willing to go. And Soap gets that — gets wanting certainty. Doesn't know how to tell him that there's no fucking limit on how far he's willing to go. What he's willing to do. What he's willing to let Simon do to him. What he wants Simon to do to him.
Fuck, if Ghost would let him he'd slip to his knees here and now… Hasn't been able to stop thinking about getting his mouth on him. Not since they met, not against that tree, especially not since that fucking bathroom stall. When Simon came just from the suggestion of it, Christ alive.
Soap shivers, feels Simon's hand tighten around his throat for a split second, feels his own cock twitch in turn. Like fucking dominos falling. Inevitable. Endless cycle of pleasure, action and reaction. Taking turns.
Ghost bends closer, and Soap wishes he wasn't wearing the mask just so he could feel his breath. His lips even moreso. Warm, tasting like Johnny's spit and old cigarettes. He wants to tear down that mask and lick into his mouth again. Would never do that, never breach his trust like that. But wants it anyways.
Fabric brushes his ear.
"Alright, Johnny?"
"Mhm," Soap sighs at the sound of Ghost's voice, dark and deep and blanketing him like thick molasses, tying him down without the need for a command. He presses his half-hard cock into the palm of Simon's hand, bites down his own moan when Simon, despite his earlier words, lets him. Glides his hand over Johnny's flank and rests it right at the front of his kilt. Lets him rut into it with surreptitious little thrusts, leaking more and more. This still counts as being good, his eyes are still on the stage.
The bassist on stage is changing instruments, the vocalist is thanking the crowd, regaling them with some tales of the tour so far. And Johnny is watching them, like Ghost ordered, but his entire focus is on the feeling of Simon's body so close to his own. On the want, the fucking need it elicits in him. How he wants to feel if Simon gets as slick as Soap does when he's turned on. Felt like it, earlier, but he needs to see. To lick up all that wetness, know the taste, know what it feels like when the length of Ghost's cock glides between his cheeks, how intense the pressure when he slips in, just the tip, maybe a little more. He's tempted to ask Ghost to just fucking do it right here, doesn't care who fucking sees.
Ghost's hand sneaks up Soap's side, tugs at the piercing again, pulling on his nipple, the pain sharp and delicious. Soap's breath gets stuck in his throat when Ghost tugs harder, fingers bare and warm through Johnny's shirt but it's not enough, never is, never could be. He needs skin on skin, needs the chase, and the violence of him. Needs to be made to obey because he wants it that way. Willing submission taken by force. Soap shudders, digs the back of his head into the meat of Ghost's shoulder and tries to keep quiet.
This is torture. He loves every second of it, but it is still torture. Even though he wanted this, even though it was his idea and he wouldn't miss it for the world. His favourite band, right there, on stage. He can't even focus, not really. Not when they should be at home, naked in Simon's bed until there's not a single square inch not covered in kisses and bruises and bites, and Soap is filled and sated and covered in Simon's spend like he was always meant to be.
It's quite frankly rude to spring this revelation on him here and now, that Simon wants him back. He wants him. Soap bites his lip. It's rude. He wouldn't change it for the world.
Ghost bends closer again.
"That's not an answer, Sergeant. Gonna need verbal confirmation of your status."
The use of his rank is unfair, and if Soap didn't enjoy it so much he'd call him on it. When the fuck did his wires get so crossed? Maybe they always have been, but Christ if Ghost doesn't bring that streak out in a special fucking way. Gonna be hard not to pop a rager in the field every time Ghost calls on him if he keeps going like that, fuck.
"Permission to look away, Sir?" He angles his hips to press his ass closer, right against the hard length of Ghost, tucked away safely in his cargos, and Soap needs to know if he is leaking just as bad as he himself is, if there is a stain at the front. Wants to get on his knees and suck at the fabric before Ghost fucks his face. If the jock hadn't been soaked before it sure would be now, fuckin' hell. It's so tempting not to ask for permission at all. To disobey and see what it gets him, the punishment might just be worth it. Might make it better, even. He wonders what Ghost would come up with, knows how… adventurous he gets with his torture. How precisely planned every move, how sick his ideas, how beautiful his execution of each of his frankly inspired methods.
Not that Soap necessarily wants that inflicted upon himself. Not all of it, at least. Not… not most of it. Wouldn't say no to most of it, either. Might honestly beg for some of it if he gets desperate enough which he is well on his way to be.
Anything for you, Johnny. God, if he knew…
He wonders if Ghost would do more than make him wait for it. If he could be convinced to hit Soap, maybe squeeze that hand around his throat tight until he's just on the edge of blacking out. Maybe over the edge. If Ghost'd keep going if he did. Soap kind of wants him to. Fuck it— Soap really wants him to, and fuck, he shouldn't be thinking about this right now, he is hard enough as it is, his balls heavy and full like he didn't come barely a half hour ago.
He wants to disregard Simon's orders. They're not on duty, punishment doesn't matter, is — if Soap is honest with himself — part of the appeal, this enticing promise of some undefined chastisement dangled in front of him like a tasty fucking carrot, and he is the stupid donkey snapping his teeth for it. He's already asked, anyways. Can find some other order to disobey, he's sure there'll be opportunities galore for it if Ghost's hands keep caressing every bit of his body they can reach.
But for now, Soap said he could be good, and he's determined to prove himself right.
Ghost's hand slips down from his neck, settles on his hips along with the other, to slowly turn him around.
"Granted," he breathes, and when Soap looks up at him he dies a little inside. Simon's eyes are darker than he's ever seen them, black pupils filling out the brown of his irises, blown wide. His pale lashes glint in the stage lights and his lids look so heavy it's fucking sinful. He looks every inch a predator, and Soap is more than happy to be his prey.
"Jesus, cannae look at a man like that, doll," he groans, fingers sneaking around the back of Simon's neck, pulling him down. He doesn't fucking care the mask is in the way, he needs to kiss him, bite him, any part he can reach. Presses his hips against Simon's, cocks rubbing together for one delicious, glorious fucking second that has him moaning into the fabric over Simon's mouth. "Gonnae make me drag ye outta here lookin' like tha', fuckin' hell. 's not fair how beautiful ye are."
Simon gasps, a sweet little noise that surprises Soap more than it should. Ghost doesn't have any right to make noises like that, this shit brickhouse of a man in his dumb, scary, hot costume. No right to sound like he needs this just as much as Soap does, like he could be sweet for it, and pliable under Johnny's hands. Like Johnny could make him lose control.
He bites down on Simon's lip through the mask, doesn't care about the plasticky taste, just cares that he can feel Simon melt beneath his touch. Allows himself to be greedy. Just a little.
"Need you," he whispers into the crook of Simon's neck, biting down again for emphasis, this time on bare skin, licking at the taste of flesh and sweat and blood, basking in it, etching it into his memory. Tries to get his cock to stop pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Simon groans, low and threatening, digs his fingers into Soap's hips, slips them down to cup his ass.
"Y'got me, Johnny." He sounds ruined, like his throat is raw, and it just makes him that much hotter, raspy and like he already got fucked seven ways from Sunday. Christ alive, it's really not fair. English bastard.
Soap closes his eyes, inhales him deeply. Wonders how anybody's sweat can smell this good. He presses his cheek against Simon's bare arm, furtively looks at the pearls of sweat gathered there, wishes he could bury his whole face in his pits again. Wishes Simon had fucked him outside, even though there was no time and it wasn't the place, but he wants it. Needs it. Needs to tell him. He claws at every bit of skin he can reach, pads of his fingers over raised keloids and soft hair, cranes his neck to plant hungry kisses up the column of Ghost's neck until his lips graze his ear, right where he's missing a piece of it. He licks the thick scar that marks the lost flesh.
"I— fuck ye. Need your cock, Sir." His voice is still quiet, almost embarrassed, but he doesn't really care that much who hears. Uses his title against him, fair's fair.
Ghost groans and drops his face into Johnny's shoulder even though he has to lean down to do so. Soap rolls his hips again, drags their cocks together again, moans at the feeling again even if it is through too many layers of fabric. Leaks into his jockstrap like he's got a fucking fountain for a dick, doesn't fucking care.
"Please," he says, pleading, sweet, making his lashes flutter when he looks up at Simon.
"Later." Ghost sounds brittle, and the look on his face when he raises his head from Johnny's shoulder is as vulnerable as Soap has ever seen him. "I— can't. Not here, Johnny. Too… too many people. 's not safe."
It tears at Soap's heart to hear him like this, not out of control but struggling for it. And knowing he could give in, nothing bad would happen. Maybe some dirty looks, worst case someone reporting them to security for inappropriate behaviour if they're really bothered. Nothing of consequence, though. But staring at him, Soap understands. Much as he can, anyways. It's not about any of that.
Ghost needs this. The control. Over the situation. Over Johnny. Over himself. And it's alright, Soap would never demand anything different, loves it when it's Simon, just—
"Promise me," he mumbles into Simon's chest, doesn't care how desperate that sounds. "Promise me, Simon. Cannae live— need tae feel ye. Need tae know ye won't change yer mind between now and then, that yer… yer in as deep as I am."
Scarred fingers grip his jaw, tilt his head up in slow motion, and Soap follows easily. Bares his throat, like rolling over and presenting his soft belly to be torn open. He'd let him. Would kiss him while he bled out if that's what Simon needed. Anything you want, Simon. Ye've no idea.
"Never." Ghost's face is serious, eyes wide and so honest Soap feels raw. "I'll never change my mind about this, Johnny. About you. I'll promise you whatever you fucking want, sweetheart. Anything."
And it should be enough. Kind of is. More than Soap ever thought he'd get, in any case, but he still has to—
"Promise ye'll fuck me proper later. Make me yers fer everyone tae see."
And Simon moans, pushes his face into Soap's like the weak imitation of a kiss.
"Fuckin' hell, the mouth on you, Johnny—"
"—ye've no idea—"
"—stop, you insatiable fucking slag." Ghost is breathing heavy and Soap can see the amused sparkle in his eyes. "Takin' everything for me not to take you right here. Not to drag you out of here, back into that stall. Open you up with my mouth, make you take every fucking inch after until you're fucking crying on it. Do you know that, sweetheart? Do you know what you do to me?"
It's hissed into his ear, heart against fast-beating heart, and Johnny thinks he might just come if Ghost keeps talking like that. Grinds his cock against Simon's again, needs to feel him there, pulsing in time with himself, just as needy, just as desperate. Needs to know this is not just in his head. It's real, and they're both in this. Hell or high water, just like Simon said.
"Want ye tae," he mumbles back, feels Ghost twitch against him. "Tae drag me out. Make me take it— fuck, I'd take anything if it was from you, Si, take it right here if ye wanted. Want ye tae fuckin' destroy me, Sir."
"I know you do." Ghost's thumbs rub tight circles into Johnny's hips, digging into his meat, keeping him still. Well— more still than he'd be left unchecked. "And fuck, Johnny, I want to. Believe me. But I said later. Thought you wanted to prove you can be good for me, yeah? I wanna do this proper. Take my time with you. Take you apart, sweetheart. I'll fucking eat you alive if you let me."
Soap shudders but doesn't hesitate, voice breathy, pulse beating in his cock, brain fuzzy with want.
"I'd let ye."
"Fuck," Ghost groans. He closes his eyes, clearly takes a few deep breaths. The band starts playing again, almost startling Soap when people start jumping around them, but they're caught in their own little world for a moment longer. Ghost looks around, eyes tight like a deer in headlights. Then, with hasty fingers, he pulls his mask down, lips crashing into Soap's with bone shattering force. Hot tongue in his mouth, hands gripping his waist so tight they'll leave marks, and oh, Soap likes that. Likes it much more than he should, urging closer, sliding his hand up to cup Ghost's sinfully exposed jaw. Pushes his tongue into Simon's hot mouth, slides his hands under his shirt to claw at his back. Only pulls back when Simon makes a noise like a wounded animal.
"Fuck, LT," he breathes, at the same moment Ghost says,
"Fuck, Johnny." And they're both smiling. Soap catches a glimpse of the scarred corners of Simon's mouth before he pulls his mask into place again. "Came here for a show though, yeah? Don't want you to regret having missed it."
"Ye'd be worth it," Soap mumbles, watches Simon's eyes go soft like chocolate melting in the sun.
"Don't be daft." Simon says it with a smile tinting every word, look in his eyes so fond Soap has to turn away. "Like I said, I'll be here after. Long as you want me."
"Always want ye." It's a soft admission, much more delicate than their situation allows. But Soap has to say it at least once before he turns back around. Simon's chest rumbles, and he squeezes Soap tight.
"Well behaved pup, you are. Prove it to me later, yeah?"
Soap swallows hard.
"Yes, Sir."
"Good lad. Turn back around now, yeah? Watch the show."
"Ye gonna let me without pushin' tha' monster against my arse?"
The sparkle in Ghost's eyes is fucking diabolical. Hotter than it has any right being, like everything he does. Maybe it's just him.
"Thought you'd enjoy it, but I can stop—"
"—no, no' what I meant—"
"—I thought so. Focus up, Sergeant." Simon presses his masked face into Johnny's hair again. "I'm sure you're trained well enough to overcome some minor distractions."
Soap grumbles to himself, but happily settles back against Simon's strong body. Tries not to think about how hard he still is. How hard they both are. Concentrates on the music instead, lets himself be gripped by it, along for the ride, swaying, banging his head so hard he almost breaks Simon's nose again quite a few times, but Simon doesn't seem to mind. Is content just holding him steady, solid as a rock against the breaking of waves.
He holds Soap's things again when he's off to the moshpit, and when Johnny returns, he watches Simon for a moment, bopping his head along, slight smile making his eyes crinkle in the corners, lighting up when they see him. God, it makes him so ridiculously happy. Fucking sap he is.
But so is Ghost, easily pulling Johnny back against him as soon as he is within reach, planting his chin firmly on Soap's mohawk. Avoiding his cock, like the skilled fucking torturer he is, although the moshpit did absolutely fucking nothing to lessen Soap's erection. But Simon doesn't start anything and neither does Soap. Would be tempted under any other circumstance, but Simon was right — he'll still be there when the show ends. He's waited so long, what's another hour or so? Especially right here, surrounded by a bass loud enough to blow his eardrums clean out, almost as good as a fucking explosion.
He screams along, loses himself to the music for a while, anchored by Simon's warmth against his back, and his fingers slipping between his own. Loves every second of the here and now, and can't wait for later.
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Chapter 5 ⮜ ♦ ⮞ Chapter 7
I'll be so real with u idk if i wanna keep formatting this shit for tumblr if nobody bothers to reblog. sorry to be bitter about it but fr i'll stick to ao3. check there if you're invested ig
Rating: Explicit
Wordcount: 5.8k
Summary: More making out, some cleaning up, and having fun while they're at it.
CW: skin licking, dirty talk, praise, light degradation, confessions, heavy petting (still in public lol), ig exhibitionism, homophobia for 1 second
♦ My Masterlist • If you prefer AO3 ♦
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Chapter 5: Holding My Breath
Johnny looks beautiful like this — his lips still swollen from Ghost's kisses, his cheeks flushed a deep pink that stretches around his neck, down his nape. Simon wants to map it with his tongue, make sure it extends down his chest, suck his pink nipples into his mouth until Johnny is moaning for it. Wants to leave bruises with his fingers along the edges of it, to bite down hard until he has painted every inch of Johnny's skin in mottled yellows, blues and purples, and to lay still for an eternity to watch the bruises bloom. Wants to suck Johnny's tongue that tastes like Simon's own sweat back into his mouth and lick his salt off him. Wants so many things, and there is so little time… But later. They have a whole night later. Maybe more, if Johnny pushes his flight back… Ghost rubs his free hand down his face. He's already getting greedy again, already asking for too much too fast, but now that he's had a taste, there is no chance of even the pretence of holding back anymore.
Soap's hand tugs at his a little, not impatiently but like he's… excited. So tactile, his boy. His boy. His. He needs to mark him. Fucking claim every inch of his skin for himself. Tie him down if he needs to, make sure he'll never leave again. Make sure where they go they go together. Freedom's overrated anyways. Especially in the army. He needs to—
"C'mon!"
Maybe a little impatiently.
Ghost's eyes flick down, to where a thin line of pearlescent fluid runs down Johnny's thigh. Not noticeable if you're not looking for it, but Ghost is looking, is greedy for it, wants to fall to his knees right here and now to lick it up. But they're almost where they need to be, slipping into the salvation of the men's room, now almost empty again. The band must be starting soon, but there has to be time for this. Has to be. They will steal it, like they did before either of them admitted why.
Neither of them cares about the dirty look they get from the one bloke still at the urinals when Johnny tugs Ghost into a stall with him.
It smells like piss and spilled beer and stale smoke, and it's fucking disgusting in here. Ghost has slept in worse places than this, and he's fucked in better. It'll do for what he has planned, he's not picky. Not if it's Johnny who's with him. Simon leans in close, sways a little as he buries his face in Johnny's neck and lets himself say nothing at all. Lets himself have this silence after everything happened so fast, stand there and soak in how Johnny feels, his smaller, compact body crushed so deliciously against Simon's.
He realises, suddenly, that the chase is now over, and they're just… crowded in a tiny space. And he's allowed to touch Johnny. However he wants. With no excuses. He is allowed to ask for what he wants, and he won't be denied. Probably. Almost certainly, if he looks at the way Johnny's eyes are still glassy and clouded with bliss, and how he clings to Ghost like he might vanish if he relaxes his grip even a smidge. Looking desperate for it, his lips parted, huffing deep breaths like these stalls are not absolutely fucking rancid, like Ghost's scent is worth it. And they wait, both a little breathless. Not like they cared outside if anyone saw them, not like they'd care now if that guy heard them, but this is different. This is a chance to be alone, even if just for a moment.
Finally, the sound of piss hitting porcellain stops. The bathroom door creaks as it swings open and shut.— the man apparently left without washing his hands. Fuckin' rank. But at least they're alone now.
A hand with callouses at the base of each finger and phalanges just too short to be proportionate to their palm settles around Simon's neck. He leans into the feeling, memorises every single atom of Soap and how he feels against his own bare skin. Every fibre of his being screams where they touch, wants more and Johnny and more, more, MORE.
"Simon… kiss me," Johnny demands, already hungry for it again, so soon.
"Bossy little pup," Simon smiles, and oh, he'll remember this one for next time. A shudder runs down Soap's spine, so obvious in the way he trembles against Simon, and he makes a little broken sound that goes straight to Ghost's cock. "C'mere then."
Johnny is panting into his mouth when Simon pulls him close, when he pushes his tongue inside, licks over his canines, along his soft palate like he's trying to find the deepest taste of him. He is. Ghost bites his lip, just enough to draw blood, feels his cock twitch at the coppery taste, and his balls tighten. Fuckin' hell, he's so gone on this man. But he keeps control. For now. Pulls back to stroke his thumb along the scar on Soap's chin.
"Let me clean you up," he says, and it could be a command, but it's really a plea. It's the closest he's come to begging in his entire life. Johnny moans in response, attacks Ghost's mouth with a hunger that makes Ghost's cock strain. Drags his nails down Simon's bare arms until red blooms in their wake and Simon enjoys every single second of pain, the dull throbbing Soap leaves in his wake, proof that this is real.
"Okay." Johnny's eyes are so wide and so fucking blue when he says it, and it's the sweetest his voice has sounded all night. Maybe that's a lie, but Simon can't remember anything that has ever sounded as good as being allowed this. Johnny, all for him, his mouth wide open, his legs even wider, dripping in his own come. Because Simon did that, made him come all over himself just like that, Johnny went so easy once he got permission. Like a good pup, and Simon has always suspectedthis, might have even known it, but to see it like this, to be the cause of it...
He is on his knees in half a heartbeat, pushing his whole face underneath Johnny's kilt. He wants to take his time, wants to savour it, but he wants to taste him more. There will be time later. He lets his fingers drift along the cords of muscle in Johnny's legs, carding through the curly hair, running the pad of his thumb along the outline of the kinesio tape, stark black against tan skin like a piece of lingerie. Placed by Ghost's fucking hands, and now he gets to trace the edges of it, hot tongue following the path that Soap's own spend has left down his thigh, licking it up, sucking on the material of the tape where Johnny's cum soaked it, sucking bruises into Johnny's skin, moaning as he goes.
"Taste so fucking good, Johnny," he huffs, suckling harder at the skin, then bites down hard. Leaves a bruise so dark its almost black, blending in with the thick smattering of hair that covers Johnny's thighs. Wants to tear a chunk out of that muscle, bury his tongue inside the wound, make Soap cry, doesn't even know if with pleasure or pain, probably both. Doesn't let himself. Too much, too soon. Later.
"Fuck, taste so good, Johnny, could stay down here forever. Dirty slag, with those bare legs covered in cum, drive me crazy, d'ya know that?"
Johnny buries his hands in Ghost's hair and tugs, just a little, tests out the boundaries of what he's allowed. What he's allowed is… everything. Ghost would do anything to keep his mouth on him right now. Kisses his way up Johnny's thick, plump thighs, claws with sharp fingernails at his skin, presses closer, higher up, and— is disappointed when his nose meets soft, thin cotton instead of wiry hair.
"Really, Johnny?" he laments, but doesn't lean back to look up at him, even if he really wants to. But he also wants to be so fucking close to Johnny pulling away from him feels like a sin. "Today of all days—"
"Was fuckin' hard before we left." Soap sounds guilty as hell, as if Simon isn't moaning at his words, rubbing his face against his clothed dick, mouthing at the soaked fabric, sucking the precious taste of Johnny's come between his lips and relishing it, bitter and salty and mixed with sweat. "I couldnae- ah, fuck, couldnae hide it w-without—"
"Mhm," Ghost groans. Presses his face in deep, right where he wants to, right where he has needed to be all this time. Inhales, follows the promise up with a lick of his tongue against the already weeping head of Johnny's cock beneath the flimsy material. Just like he dreamed about. "Shouldn't have hidden it. Could've had me bend you in half right there, sweetheart."
There is a dull thud when Soap drops his head back against the metal wall of the stall.
"Fuuuuck. Not fair," he complains. His cock is well on the way to getting fully hard again, and Ghost wants to lick the beading precum off the tip that's already soaking through the fabric he has his mouth against.
"So wet for me, Johnny," he mumbles, has to hold himself back from ripping down the fucking jock and just taking him into his mouth like he wants to. Doesn't think he could stop if he did, and this was supposed to be just cleanup. If he does this now, they'll miss half the fucking show. Not that it wouldn't be worth it, but… what if Johnny regrets it later?
So he contents himself with just mouthing along the hard line of Johnny's cock, running his hands up and down those hairy thighs, inhaling the scent of him underneath the kilt until he is dizzy with it. "God, sweetheart, you're making such a mess for me. Been that long since you had a proper go?"
There is a deafening silence, and it stretches on for so long that Ghost does pull out from underneath the heavy wool to stare up at Soap suspiciously. Keeps his hands on his thighs, though, can't bear to stop touching him completely, kneading the tan skin with his fingers as he waits for an answer.
"…Johnny? Y'alright?"
Soap is blushing furiously, dark blotches on his cheeks, his neck. He looks slightly panicked, and Ghost quickly gets up from his knees, as much as he wants to stay there forever, right at the centre of Johnny's heat and musk. He cups Johnny's face, who leans into it like it's a lifeline, eyes slipping closed. Simon exhales.
"Come on, sweetheart, talk to me."
"'s no' been long," Johnny mumbles, barely audible. "Been… long since it wasnae me doin' it myself. But it's… uhm…"
He swallows thickly, adam's apple bobbing, hands fiddling with the hem of Ghost's shirt, and Simon is trying so fucking hard not to stare at those rosy lips he wants wrapped around his cock so bad he's dizzy with need. Soap's cheeks are burning when he buries his face against Ghost's chest like it's easier to confess when he is not looking at him. Probably is. Simon knows he wouldn't want to look Johnny in the eye while confessing some of the things he has gotten off to when thinking about him. Fuckin' hell.
"Ah had a go earlier," Soap grits out, his vowels heavy and his consonants rough. Chewing on each word until the shame is etched into its syllables, and Simon hates it. Johnny should never be ashamed. Never. He's fucking perfect.
"Oh," is all he manages, though. Then— "Didn't think you'd have had the time before we left base—"
"-no' then," Soap interrupts him, the tips of his ears burning red. Simon wrinkles his brow, but Johnny keeps going, muffled, with his face still hidden in his shirt. "When ye— ye went tae take a shower. When I was in yer—"
"…in my bed." The realisation hits slowly, then all at once, and so does the fucking mental image. Johnny, in his bed, joggers pulled down, getting off… while Ghost was doing the same in the shower. Fuck. Fuck. Simon's hand closes around Johnny's jaw in a death grip, pulls him in, bullies his tongue inside his needy, hot mouth until Johnny is moaning, letting him in so easy.
"Fuck," Simon pants between kisses, "fuck— oh god, Johnny— getting off in my bed, without me knowing, yeah? Dirty fucking slag, did you come all over my sheets? Hope I wouldn't find out? Thought I wouldn't fucking smell it later? Jesus, you're so fucking filthy— fucking perfect. Why wouldn't you— don't be embarrassed, sweetheart, fuck, that's so hot, come here—"
Those might be the most words he's said all day, and none of them are a sentence, but it doesn't matter. Not when Johnny is in his arms, moaning like a whore, opening his mouth wider, letting Simon take and take and take without any resistance.
Doesn't he know Simon will devour him whole if he lets him? Doesn't he know they're long past the point of no return? Why isn't he afraid?
"Jesus wept, Simon, yer— oh fuck, ye jus' cleaned me up." Soap whimpers, there is no other fucking word for it, and all of Ghost's blood rushes south so fast he can't think straight, can't fucking think at all he's so goddamn hard so fast. He wants to hear him make that sound again. And again and again and again, wants to be the cause of it. Simon licks along Johnny's teeth, fucks his tongue into his throat like he gets off on it — and god, he does. Pulls Johnny's hand towards his cock like he needs any guidance at all, the little slag.
"See what you do to me, Johnny?" he groans, voice breaking when Johnny cups him through his cargos, presses the flat of his palm right into his aching cock. "Feel that? 's all for you, sweetheart, all because of you. Fuck, I need—"
Johnny's hand pushes inside his waistband and wraps around him, and Ghost almost comes then and there. Almost comes again at the shocked little gasp that wrenches itself from Johnny's lips, at his glassy eyes going so much wider when he feels the metal bars. Four of them, spaced evenly along Simon's length. Fucking pain to heal, but more than worth it for Johnny's reaction alone.
Soap pushes into Ghost's space, greedier than ever, crowds him back against the metal wall, licks down his neck, along his shoulder, back down to the hair of his pits, his tongue a fiery trail.
"Fuck, Simon," he's panting and Simon might come much too early, "oh, Christ save me, ye got yer fuckin' cock pierced? Are ye mad? I'm gonnae—" The tips of his fingers glide along the warm metal balls on either side, and Ghost chokes on his own spit. Johnny's eyes are burning. "—I'm gonnae devour ye, god have mercy on my soul."
"Bit late for that," Simon jokes weakly, but wails when Johnny's thumb digs meanly into his slit, just like he did to himself earlier. Like he knows. Psychic fucking connection straight to his dick.
"Hm. Think I found somethin' else tae worship anyways," Soap grins and he looks like a devil, fucking sin incarnate as his fist glides along the length of Simon's cock, too rough, too dry, fucking perfect. "Ye gonnae come fer me, Simon?"
And Ghost has never felt so out of control, has not let go like this in years, but it's impossible not to at the look Johnny fixes him with, warm and heated and so full of trust. Simon has to close his eyes at the warmth written in Johnny's face, at all that affection, directed at him, just him, like he fucking deserves any of it. Like he ever could deserve any of it. And yet here they are, Johnny staring at him like he's seeing god in the whites of Simon's eyes.
Ghost is trembling, so fucking close, meant it earlier when he said he'd be willing to wait, but he doesn't know if he can. Not with Johnny's mouth on his, so wet and hot, with Johnny's thighs pressing up against his own, and Johnny's taste still on his tongue, salty and bitter. And he smells so fucking good that Simon wants to drown in him.
He shouldn't do it, and somewhere in the back of his mind, something is screaming, is pounding at the door of the cage Simon has put it in, that this is dangerous, all of this. That he shouldn't let go, has to keep control. But Johnny's voice is louder, and so much sweeter, every word temptation, every breath Simon's salvation.
"Let go fer me, doll," Johnny mumbles, leans in close to push his tongue along the seam of Simon's lips and into his mouth again, filthy and sloppy. "Ye wan' my mouth? I'll give it tae ye, only have tae ask. Be real good fer ye, bet I could take all of ye if I really tried, promise I'll look pretty crying fer ye if ye let me. Please, baby, say ye'll let me—"
And just like that… as much as Simon wants to say yes, it's too late. He's already coming with a choked off groan, spilling his load, fucking wasting it, it should be inside Johnny, he wants it to be inside, but later, they can do that later. Because Johnny is kissing him, fist gliding so easy now, jerking him through it, moaning into his mouth like he's getting fucking paid for it.
"So good fer me, Simon, so fucking perfect. Knew ye could, fuckin' knew I wouldnae even have tae— but god I wouldae loved tae suck you off, wannae feel your cock on my tongue," he's babbling like he's the one who just came his fucking brains out, but Simon doesn't want to stop him. Wants to enjoy this floaty feeling instead, his hunger finally a little sated, the beast in his chest appeased when Johnny brings his soiled hand to his own face to lick his fingers clean. Would be enough to make Simon come again if he was ten years younger. Is almost enough now, makes him tremble and shake as Johnny still talks him through it.
When Ghost comes down, he still can't really think, can speak much less, just buries his face against Johnny's shoulder, bullies himself into the crook of his neck to bite down on the tendons of muscle, lightly. Needs to stake his claim even after all this.
There is a moment of silence where they are just panting into each other's skin, both with shaking legs and barely content even though this was so much. More than Simon ever thought he'd get in all his lifetime.
"Tha' was…" Johnny drifts off, takes a deep breath. "Yer so pretty when ye come, d'ye know tha'?"
And Simon closes his eyes. Hasn't been called pretty in his entire life, would find it patronising from anyone else. Loves it because it's so clear Johnny means it.
"Fuck off," he grumbles, but his cold heart feels strangely warm, warmer when Soap chuckles against him. With weak knees, Simon pushes away from the wall, right into Johnny's space. Bends down and kisses him again, softly this time, for good measure. "Thank you," he says, and means for more than just this. Johnny smiles.
"Any time."
Simon glances down at the very visible bulge at the front of Soap's kilt.
"Clearly," he remarks, so dryly that Johnny bursts into laughter.
It's a fucking miracle nobody came in during all that, but they waste no time now, Ghost patting himself down with some toilet paper, draping his hoodie artfully to hide the wet patch at the front of his trousers, Johnny miraculously finding a way to manage his cock into the flimsy fabric of his jock to hide the most noticeable outline of it.
"I'll get my mouth on ye later," Soap mumbles as they step out the men's room, and it sounds like a threat. "Wannae feel you and… those on my tongue, Jesus. Things ye do tae me."
"Could say the same." Ghost smiles under his mask. Wraps his arm around Johnny's waist and pulls him towards the noise of the crowd. "Come on. Plenty of time later…"
"Not soon enough," Johnny sighs wistfully, but his eyes are starting to beam with excitement for the show despite all the distractions. "But yer right. Ye'll be around later. Right?"
For a moment, he looks a little forlorn. It's easier than it has any right being to pull him close and press a kiss into his stupid fucking hair.
"Long as you'll have me, sweetheart."
___________________________
They barely make it back on time, pushing through the crowd despite the annoyed looks they suffer for it. But there is no way Simon would let Johnny watch his favourite band from anywhere but centre stage, as long as that's where he wants to be. He snarls at a man who dares touch Johnny, who grips his arm like he has any fucking right— and pulls back when Ghost fixates him with a cold stare, his own fingers digging into the man's pulse point.
"Get your hands off him, you mutt," Ghost spits, content when the man physically shrinks away. Didn't even have to pull the knife.
"Jesus wept," Johnny's voice comes from next to him, and before he can properly turn, Soap's mouth is on his neck, digging canines into his sensitive skin, biting, clawing, maiming in a way that makes Simon wish he could pull his mask down right here, surrounded by people just to kiss Johnny back.
"That get ya goin', Sergeant?" he teases instead, groans low when Johnny sucks a bruise into the exposed skin of his neck, digs his fingers into Johnny's hips in turn, pulls him closer. And Johnny's still so fucking hard, maybe hard again, doesn't really matter, but—
"Keep it in yer pants, fuckin' faggots," someone grumbles next to them, and Ghost is about to get mad even though the woman might have a point, this really isn't the best place to do all this, maybe they should— but Soap is first.
"Haud yer wheeshd, ye cunt. Christ, cannae even have a proper snog in peace, get tae fuck." Soap grabs at Simon's arm and pulls him along. "C'mon, doll, we're movin'. Fuck knows why people feel the need tae comment jus' 'cause it's two fuckin' lads kissin'."
The woman yells something rude after them, but Johnny just flips her off, drags Simon along, pushing through the tightly woven crowd until they're only four or five rows back from the stage. Simon's limbs are all tingly, and his brain is still stuck on "doll". Plays it over and over in his head again, what that sounded like from Johnny's lips. To know he's the one being referred to so lovingly. As this fragile, pretty thing. It just…
Johnny is staring at him, corners of his mouth turned down in discontent.
"What's got yer knickers in a twist, LT? Look like ye lost a few braincells jus' there, fuckin' hell. Always some homophobic cunt needs tae make themselves known, 's nae bother. Don' listen tae her."
Ghost shakes his head, hands flying up to his face to check his mask is still in place. Fucking collecting drool, that thing is.
"'s not that. Tell you later," he manages, and Soap wrinkles his brow but then shrugs. Presses a gentle kiss right to Simon's mask, where his mouth would be, and god fuck, will he ever stop? Ghost isn't sure his heart will make it through any more of this.
Soap turns around just in time — the lights dim and the crowd explodes as the vocalist steps on stage. Simon feels Johnny moving next to him, both hands raised to his mouth as he whoops and howls and hollers, pressing into Simon's side like he needs his warmth even though he can't possibly. Something fond purrs inside Simon's chest. As the rest of the band filters on stage and the first note rings out, he steps behind Johnny. Like a shadow, flattening himself close to Soap's body. Presses his fabric-covered nose into Johnny's hair and inhales. Fuck, he'd never admit it but he's so glad he doesn't keep it short anymore.
Johnny drops his head back just a smidge, leans against Ghost even as the crowd errupts. They won't have this moment forever, sooner rather than later a pit will open and they'll have to either join or make space, but for now, Simon lets himself enjoy this. Johnny's warmth against him has his cock aching again in no time, but there are more important things right now. Like Johnny enjoying the show. Unless…
Soap's head whips around when Ghost subtly grinds his half-hard cock against the perfect globes of Johnny's ass. God, he'd give anything to be buried in there right now, doesn't even matter if it's his fingers, his tongue or his cock. Just wants to feel Johnny, how warm his insides, how tight and how desperate his fucking hole can get, like he knows it can. Like he's been fantasising about every fucking night.
Simon inhales deeply as if to calm himself, tilts his head. Looks at down at Soap, willing and pliant against the hard line of Ghost's own body. God, he'd let Ghost do anything he wanted to right now, the little slag. Simon could say he's a better man that this, but he's really, really not.
"Keep your eyes front, Johnny," he mumbles. Presses harder into the curve of Soap's ass, slotting against him like he belongs there. Maybe he does. Made for this, for him. He feels Johnny take a deep breath, hair moving against Simon's cheek as he turns his face to look up at the stage again. "Good lad."
Johnny moans, quietly, the noise more a rumble against Ghost's chest than something audible, and Simon's cock twitches. Soap's hand slides down the length of his arm, fingers digging into Ghost's palm before they intertwine. Tapping against his skin, painting patterns on the numb patches of his scars. Simon shivers. Still such a fucking rush to get to touch him like this. To get to be touched like this. In public, no gloves. Like he's wanted, most of all. It makes his heart ache and his cock throb. Fuck. He needs to— regain some semblance of control. They're out in the open, there's strangers touching his bare skin, he needs something to ground him. Something to hold on to. Assurance, control and command. And he has the perfect subject right here. Simon breathes in, lets his mind go quiet. Like this is any other op. His mission is to make Johnny happy, and to keep him happy. Maybe he can afford to tease him a little. Maybe.
"Now…" he bends down, until his mask-covered mouth touches Soap's pink ear, "now, you're gonna keep being good for me, yeah? Keep your eyes on the stage, no matter what, sweetheart."
Soap's face turns, cheek pressing hard against Simon's pec.
"Don't wannae," Johnny is pouting, thick brows drawn together. "Wannae look at ye, yer much prettier than any ah them—"
There he goes again, calling Simon something as stupid as pretty. Of all the words in the English language… Why does his heart feel so warm? Ghost tilts his head, closes his hand around Soap's jaw and turns his head gently back towards the stage. Slides it down to rest around his throat like a collar, doesn't squeeze hard. Just wants the reminder that he is allowed this. That Johnny wants this as much as he does.
"I don't care what you want right now, Sergeant." It's risky, pulling rank like this, outside of duty, but he knows he's hit the fucking mark when he feels a full body shudder wrack through Soap. And Ghost needs… he needs this. Can feel his control slipping with every breath Johnny takes so close that Ghost can feel his chest rise and fall. Can't let that happen, not here, not now. Later. Maybe. "Do you understand me?"
Johnny whines, pushing his ass back, grinding himself into the steadiness of Ghost's body, like he is his anchor not the other way around. His rock in the incoming tide. His hand squeezes tight around Ghost's, warm and softer than it has any right being. Ghost's sole focus is on him, and it is only that which causes him to hear Johnny's quiet mumble.
"Yes, Sir." He sounds wrecked, but he keeps his eyes front now, just like Ghost asked.
"Good pup." It's a reward in and of itself to feel what that does to Johnny, feel his hips twitch backwards involuntarily, trying to grind right into the hardness of Ghost's cock, like he could entice him to just take what he wants. Probably could, given enough time. The only torture that could ever break The Ghost. Fuckin' hell. Keep control, Riley. Ghost bites his cheek until he tastes blood. "You wanted to see this show, Johnny. So see it. I'll still be here after, yeah? Takin' you home with me, come hell or high water. Gonna make you mine, Johnny. No gettin' out now."
He feels the softness of Soap's hair move against his neck as Soap nods, then swallows thickly beneath Ghost's hand, and he allows himself a little smile. Glutton for punishment, glutton for praise, glutton for fucking obsession. Fuckin' figures.
Johnny behaves for a while, only moving his hips along with the music, swaying to the fast beats and heavy breakdowns. Simon relaxes, lets himself get lost in the feeling of how he can almost feel the crack between Johnny's cheeks, how he can almost feel him groan whenever his cock slides right over where it should be buried. Doesn't move his hand, gets to savour every single time Johnny swallows, throat constricting beneath Ghost's loose grip. God, he'll look so pretty with his throat stuffed. Ghost hums, but doesn't move more. Wants to let Johnny enjoy the show. For now.
He waits a few songs before he lets his other hand slip up from Johnny's hip, cupping his pec, running a thumb over a hard nipple and—
"What the fuck, Johnny?"
He can tell Soap is smirking like he does, teeth on show like a fucking shark.
"You like 'em, LT? Go' a few surprises of my own, ye ken?" Soap slips his own hand up to cup over Simon's, forces his palm against the very real fucking metal bars that pierce his nipples, and Simon has to clench his stomach and close his eyes before he fucking comes. Fuck. "Had them forever… usually go' spacers in on base. Doesnae mix well tae have shit catchin' on 'em. No' tha' I'm no' a fan of the feelin'—
"—slut for pain, never would've guessed—"
"—fuck off — anyways. Never really an opportunity tae get the pretty ones out. Thought this'd be… nice."
Nice. Like it's the fucking weather. Simon needs to feel them again, see them, tug at them, lick them, bite at them, suck them into his mouth until Johnny comes from that alone. Pull him up at them while he's fucking him. He said he's had them for years, they must be fully healed. Slowly, Simon rubs his thumb over the piercing again, relishes the hiss it pulls from Johnny. He has to be careful, can't think about it too fuckin' much or it'll go to his head. He flicks at it, licks at Johnny's neck when he drops his head forward, savouring the salt of his sweat on his tongue.
Slides his other hand down to pass over the bulge in Johnny's kilt. Just lightly, contact barely even there, but he feels Soap's cock jump nonetheless, feels his neck go tight as he inhales sharply.
"Shh, it's alright," he soothes him quietly. Just for a little while he can let himself have this. Indulge before he lets Johnny loose and into the pit, before he drags him out of here and claims him like he has wanted to for months now. Like Johnny needs. Simon presses his hips into Johnny's ass harder, just to let him feel it, tugs at his nipple piercing again, pushes down the overwhelming urge to spin him around, push his shirt up or rip it off him, see what those pierced tits look like covered in his load. God, he needs to get it together… and so does Johnny, pressing his cock against the palm of Simon's hand like his life depends on it. Keep pressure on it, never failed him in the field. "Fuck, okay. Okay. It's alright, sweetheart, be good for me, yeah? Eyes up front like I said, I know you can follow orders when you want to."
Soap's neck twists, barely enough to count as looking away, and his hand comes up to tug at Simon's curls until he bends down to press his ear closer to Johnny's mouth.
"See, problem is," Johnny breathes, tilts his hips back in such a delicious fucking way Simon has to swallow his moan, "problem is, I'm no' sure I particularly want tae, right now. Tha' weapon yer fuckin' promisin' feels much better than waitin' fer some possible reward in the vague future."
"Who says you're getting a reward, sweetheart?" Ghost grins at the look on Johnny's face, is glad he can't see him. Too fuckin' soft he is. "Good behaviour is expected, Sergeant. Bad behaviour, however…"
His hand glides down again, heel of his palm pressing hard against Johnny's cock before he removes his hand entirely.
"…bad behaviour won't be tolerated. You know the drill."
"Fuck, fergot yer fuckin' evil," Soap groans, but there is the edge of a smile to his words. He knows this game, and he wants to play it. With Simon. Ghost's cheeks are warm, and his cock is leaking and he thinks he hasn't been this happy in a decade. Soap shakes his head. "Fine. Fine. I'll be fucking good. Ye've no idea how fuckin' good I can be when I put my mind tae it."
Ghost smiles to himself. Oh, but he does.
"I've no doubt whatsoever, Johnny."
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Chapter 4 ⮜ ♦ ⮞ Chapter 6
oh no my marbles... lmk in comments/reblogs if u wanna be added to the taglist for this fic! reblogs are appreciated <3
Rating: Explicit
Wordcount: 5.5k
Summary: Shit goes down I've waited long enough I'm not made for slowburn. Happy fucking.
CW: sweat kink, scent kink, rimming mention, bruise/marking kink, accidental voyeurism (for a second), making out, grinding, semi-public sex (kind of sex lets not argue about definitions), coming in pants (if soap was wearing any the slag)
♦ My Masterlist • If you prefer AO3 ♦
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Chapter 4: Submerged
The opening act is much better than Soap had expected, some tiny band of only three people singing and screaming in a language neither of he nor Simon recognise. But he enjoys it thoroughly, nodding along to lyrics he doesn't know, feeling the music reverberate in his chest. His eyes keep flicking over to Ghost — to Simon, so uncharacteristically open, his skin heretofore unknown levels of bare, scarred pale arms on full display with faint freckles and so much silvery blond hair that Soap wants to rub his face against. The way he moves with the beat, how sweat is already starting to bead on his brow, to drip down his bare arms, staining his shirt under his pits… he is mesmerising.
Soap watches him more than he looks at the band, feels a little guilty about it. Stares when Ghost's eyes are closed, his head tilted back a little, all that throat exposed under the flickering lights, and Soap wants to bite it. Wants to pull his mask down and push his tongue into his mouth like he wanted to earlier, when Oscar was coming over, when his eyes kept getting stuck on Simon. Not yours to look at, he wanted to scream. Not yours, he's mine, all mine. And it's not true, of course, but he wants it to be. Wanted a fucking reason to pull Simon away, an excuse for being jealous. Was calmed only by the fact that Ghost hadn't even said a word to the man.
Simon's bare arm slides against Soap's as the crowd sways, and for once, Soap gives in to the feeling, lets himself lean up against Ghost as if he is allowed to. Presses closer and closer under the pretence of a crowded space, close enough to smell Simon's sweat, and Soap wants to bury his face in it. Lick him clean, right up the corded muscle of his arm, submerge himself in the drenched hair of his armpits, follow down the salty trails with his tongue until he has his face buried between Simon's legs and can finally taste him. Swallow his cock down like he knows he could, slide his wet tongue along the length until he can finally find out what Simon sounds like when he moans. Soap wants to know how far the hair on his belly extends down, he knows it does — or did, the last time he snuck a look — but he wants to see everything. Trace his scars with his fingers, dig his nails into that marred skin until he has marked Simon as his. Get on his knees and bury his whole face between Simon's cheeks, taste his hole and suck on his balls if he gets real lucky—
"Sitrep?" Ghost's arm bumps into his, making Soap shiver. Pulls him out of his daydream and back into reality, where the band is thanking everyone again for coming out, and he decidedly doesn't have his tongue shoved up Simon's hole. His cock is hard like he does, though, straining against the confines of his jockstrap, and thank fuck he decided to wear that thing. It's uncomfortable to say the least, but it's better than tenting his fucking kilt. It's obvious enough as it is, but he can hide it if he strategically places the sleeves of the hoodie wrapped around his waist, and if he just… thinks about something else. Anything else. Focuses on the music, the crowd, the electricity that crackles in the air. On the fact that the guy in front of him kind of smells like a loaf of cheese left out in the sun. He discreetly adjusts himself. Doesn't let his eyes linger on Simon's profile, on the way his shirt pronounces his chest more than if it was bare, or how fucking round and perfect his ass looks in his cargos.
"Aye, fuckin' braw." He's stumbling over his words, takes another sip of his beer to cover it up. Empties the cup.
Ghost rolls his eyes, but doesn't make him repeat it in English this time. Johnny tilts his head.
"Ye good?"
"Yeah, Johnny, I'm good." And he looks like it, too, flush so high up on his cheeks that Soap can see it above the mask, eyes sparkling. Smiling down at him with those warm brown eyes that Soap couldn't forget even if he wanted to. He can tell Simon is considering something, a small crease in his brow. "Do you w—"
His words are interrupted by the shrill, shredding sound of a guitar right next to a microphone, and the vocalist on stage laughs. Soap pulls a face, but still, he's sort of sad when the next song is announced to be the last.
"I want to see the biggest fucking pit you cunts can manage!" the vocalist screams, and Soap can feel himself practically vibrating next to Simon. He wants—
"Go on then," Ghost nods over to where people are clearing the floor, squeezing and bumping into each other to make space before chaos is unleashed. "Know you want to, Johnny. Give me your stuff."
Soap quickly hands over his hoodie, his phone. Turns away before Simon can notice the slight bulge at the front of his kilt that hasn't gone down in spite of his best efforts. Closes his hand around Ghost's wrist, though, before he can think better of it, and squeezes.
"Yer the best, LT. Could kiss ye." He doesn't let himself think about what he just said; he's off, beelining for the pit, reaching the edge of it just as the breakdown drops. He can still feel Ghost's watchful eyes on him as he throws himself bodily into a bloke who must be even taller than Simon, fucking shit brickhouse of a man, and then he's lost in the sea of writhing arms and twitching heads. He collides with more bodies than he can count, will probably be covered in bruises come morning, and even though he is having a great fucking time all he can really think about is how much he wishes it were Ghost's bruises. Simon's hands on him right now, shoving, holding, pushing, pulling, digging into his skin, leaving marks. He holds a stumbling lad up who's about to slip and fall, earns a thumbs up for it. Lets himself get lost in the music again for the rest of the song, and the beat that repeats inside his heart. Hopes Simon is having a good time, far off to the side, holding his things. Taking care of him. Watching his six, even now. Only when the last note rings out, and some bloke right next to Soap's ear yells and whistles so fucking loud that he thinks maybe explosions haven't damaged his hearing as much as he'd thought but this just might, does he turn to find Simon again.
The music is back to non-descript rock and metal classics, blasting Crazy Train to tide the masses over until the main act's all set up. Should be a half hour, probably a little more, by Soap's estimate. Small venue, no space to have multiple sets of equipment set up at the same time. Also… beer break. Smoke break. Piss break. The crowd dissipates fast, but Soap could spot Simon from a mile away in a crowd of millions, his form a solid wall of black in the masses of black-clothed people. Nobody stands like he does, so eerily still even now. There is a smile in his eyes that Soap barely ever gets to see, has never seen him wear in front of people, really. One that makes him look raw, and young. Soap's heart flutters.
He slides up next to him, presses his shoulder into Ghost's, and Ghost doesn't pull away. Leans his warm body into Soap's like he isn't merely tolerating it, but wants it. Soap feels unmoored, body pumped full of endorphins already, faint aftermarks of his bruises pulsing under his skin. He wants Simon to find every single mark and replace it with his own. Needs to be marked and claimed as much as he needs to breathe. Simon is staring at him with a strange expression on his half-hidden face.
"Sitrep?" Soap repeats Simon's earlier words back at him and watches his smile deepen and his eyes get warmer.
"Fucking mint, Johnny." Simon sways his head as if in thought. "Need a piss, though. Meet you for a smoke after?"
"Aye." Soap wants to go with him. Get a chance to look, even just a little, even if it's pissing. Might not mind the pissing part as much as he should when it's Ghost. He can already feel his bladder filling again, beer running right through him, but he knows he can't stand next to Ghost in a stall and be fucking normal about it. He'll go after. "'m goin' back tae where we were earlier. Got fuller in here since, but I reckon most people will wannae keep tae the bar and seats outside."
They split without another word as they exit, Ghost making a beeline for the men's room, where there is for once an actual queue, but it's moving fast. Soap gets his wrist stamped on the way out, and meanders back towards the shadowy comfort of their spot. When he rounds the corner, though, there is already someone there. Soap feels a blush creep up his own cheeks at the sight, a couple, tongues so deep inside each other's throats it would be disgusting if it wasn't so hot, the hand of one so clearly pressing against the bulge in the other's trousers, providing friction. They're grinding away without thought, obviously worked up. Soap watches as a tattooed hand slides up a muscled chest, buries itself in the bloke's dark curls. Pulls, pulls him back, watches as greedy lips attach to his neck, sucking bruises, leaving bites. Little moans drift in Soap's direction while everyone else turns away discreetly, and so does he, after a moment, jealousy burning bright inside his chest. Not of either of these people, he doesn't care that they're both fit, but of their situation. He wants it to be him, him and Simon, uncaring and indifferent to what people might think. Not counting exits but letting themselves get lost in each other.
He wanders off towards the other side of the building, looking for another good spot, a little forlorn and alone in this crowd, when he spots Oscar's group. Oscar smiles at him, waves him over, and Soap has nothing better to do. No telling how long Ghost might be, but no doubt he'll find him wherever Soap goes.
"John!" Oscar smiles at him. Introduces him to his friends, whose names Soap has forgotten before they stop speaking. It's not like he dislikes them, not even like he doesn't want to make friends. Always good to have people around who enjoy the same kinds of shows. One of them is staring at him like Johnny's a five-course meal, and he doesn't mind, but he won't take the bloke up on his unspoken offer, probably wouldn't even if Ghost wasn't here with him. He doesn't look to closely as to why that would be. Oscar offers him a light when Soap pulls a cigarette from his pack, then grins at the raised eyebrow. "Stole it from some other lad… well, he let me keep it. Bless the men who come prepared, I s'ppose."
Soap laughs, gladly leans in to let him light up.
"Enjoyin' the show so far?" It's one of the lasses asking, smiling at him, and her accent wraps around Soap like home. "I had nae heard o' these lads at all, but fuck me sideways, fer an opener they were a right belter!"
Soap grins at her enthusiasm, her waving arms, and he has to agree.
"Ach, right! Didnae expect tae like them so much, I think I listened tae a few o' their song 'forehand but Christ, tae see 'em live was jus'…"
It's easy to fall into conversation with her, even if Soap notices the amused glances from the rest of the troupe. Oscar, as far as he can tell, is from up north, but he's not Scottish, none of them are, and he can hear his own accent getting thicker by the syllable. Doesn't mind, though, not with this lass who sounds just like him.
"—an' tha' breakdown was jus'— Jesus wept, lost my mind there a little while, I think. Decent fuckin' pit as well, aye?" She wiggles happily at the memory, and just when Soap is about to respond, he feels a familiar presence at his back. He doesn't need to turn around to know. Could make out the feeling of him, the shape of him, the scent of him even blindfolded. An arm lays heavy across his shoulders, and the group falls silent. Soap turns, smiles up at Ghost, whose impatience comes off of him in waves, mask pulled high, eyes dark and focused on Soap with an intensity that makes his stomach go all warm and tight.
"Hiya again," Oscar grins, a peace offering, another chance. The Glaswegian lass pipes up again,
"Oh, hi! Met Oscar before as well, have ye? And ye are..?"
"Leaving," Ghost says, voice so dry and gruff that Johnny chubs up in his jock immediately. It's a command, phrased as a fact, and under any other circumstance, he might get mad at Ghost for ordering him around outside of duty, but right now, he really, really doesn't mind. Soap smiles apologetically, is about to at least say goodbye to these nice people, but Ghost is already turning and walking away. His hand doesn't settle in Soap's neck, and he doesn't drag him along, but it feels like he might as well be for the way Soap follows him like a lost puppy until Ghost steps into a dark spot beneath a tree at the far side of the courtyard.
He pulls the cigarette from between Soap's lips, pushes his mask down in one fluid motion to place the filter in his own mouth. Soap feels dizzy, heart beating in his cock, blood rushing south so fast his knees buckle. Ghost leans in close.
"Thought I was the only company you needed, Johnny. I'm heartbroken," he mumbles, lips nearly brushing Soap's ear before he leans back. Exhales a plume of smoke right into Soap's face. It's rude, arrogant even, but Soap sucks the tainted air in greedily, anything to capture even a sample of what Ghost might taste like. He is still just in the too-tight shirt, arms pale silver under the moonlight, fucking bare like they never are, the stains under his pits startlingly black, and Soap can't stop thinking about it. What it might be like to be allowed there. What Ghost's sweat would taste like if he was permitted to suck it off his skin, lick it from the soaked hair of his pits. He shudders, and Ghost's eyebrows raise.
"Ye are," Soap admits, and it comes out more raw than he intends.
"Thought you were going back to the spot from before," Ghost half-asks, half-scolds. "Got distracted by the pretty boy again, Johnny? Didn't think you'd be that easy."
Would be for you, Soap doesn't say.
"Wasnae!" he defends himself instead, not caring all that much that he sounds petulant. "Didnae ken how long ye'd be in the men's, saw the line. And our spot was… uh. Occupied."
A blush rises in his cheeks at the memory of it, of the hand, curled around the hard outline of a cock, of greedy kisses that leave mouths dripping in saliva. He can feel his cock jump, presses harder into the tree behind him, away from Ghost's body. He can't let him find out, fuck. Getting hard thinking about two people kissing in a dark alley, Christ have mercy. Mostly getting hard thinking about what it might be like to get to kiss Simon like that.
"Yes, I noticed," Ghost remarks dryly. "What, you didn't want to stand right next to the snogging faggots to wait for me like a proper creep would've?"
Soap stares at him blankly. Watches as Simon's eyes slit, as his shoulders start to shake with quiet laughter.
"Ye twat!" Soap punches his bare arm, ignores the electric crackle that runs down his spine when Ghost catches his fist. "I thought ye were mad at me fer… I dunno, fer somethin'! Christ, fuck ye, Simon."
Ghost's eyes go soft, all of a sudden.
"Simon now, is it?"
"Aye," Soap grits, grumpy and a little annoyed. Simon raises his hand, slowly, so slowly, and lays it on Soap's shoulder. His palm is warm, and a little sweaty, and he smells like cheap soap and disinfectant. It goes straight to Soap's head. Just like the absolutely sinful look at the pit hair spilling out of Simon's too-tight shirt with the too-short sleeves. Like a fucking slag. Or maybe Soap is for the way he is panting for a taste, even though he's a little pissed off. Just a little. Not enough to make him want Ghost any less. Never is.
"I'm sorry, Johnny." Ghost sighs, runs his fingers through his short hair. Seems to search for the right words for a moment, which never fucking happens. "Fuckin' hell, I feel like all I've been doin' tonight is apologising. I don't… I'm sorry, alright? I was just… teasing."
Soap melts. A little.
"'s fine," he mumbles, but Simon shakes his head.
"It's not. I don't mean to ruin this for you, Johnny. You can… I know you're trying to be considerate. Of me and my... I know that. I appreciate it. But you can— this is your show. We can go back to them, if you want to. Oscar and… they seemed… nice."
He seems pained when he says it, but honest enough. He would do that. For Soap. Soap's heart wants to spring out of his chest.
"I don't," he says honestly. "I was— kinda ran intae them lookin' fer a quiet place I could drag ye. The girl, I cannae— anyways, she's from Glasgow as well, liked the opener, we got tae talkin'—"
"—you don't need to explain yourself to me, Johnny—"
"—but I want to!" Soap snaps. He pulls at his heavy, heavy heart, until some words bubble out from underneath. "I was— this is special fer me, ye ken? We never— I ken we're friends in the service and… don' give me shite about it not bein' in the field manual, come on— we're friends, but we never… there's never time tae spend together outside o' work, really, right? Wannae spend the time we've now with ye, not some stranger."
He takes a deep breath, jittery inside, hoping this isn't too much, doesn't border too closely on a confession of what this really is— of what really makes it special. Ghost is staring at him, unmoving. Unblinking. Cigarette between his fingers, halfway to his mouth, face lit by the burning red cherry. Soap plucks it from him, takes a drag. Exhales to the side, and tilts his head. And waits, with an aching heart, hoping he won't be sent back to base for his unprofessional demeanour.
Simon's gaze flicks downward for a moment, away from Soap's eyes towards his mouth, and it's not just Soap's imagination this time, how Simon licks his lips. How his eyes become hungry and he makes a little sound, deep inside his chest, so quiet Soap barely hears it. But he does hear it.
And Soap just… gives in. Like there was never any question about it.
Steps forward. Presses his face into Ghost and inhales deep, cock swelling before he even fully grasps what he is doing. Ghost smells like sweat, and spilled beer, and like stale cigarette smoke and his 5in1 bodywash. Like death, always, a little, it clings to him, all that blood and all those lives.
There is no scent that feels more like home.
Soap's eyes slip shut when he noses up Ghost's arm, and Simon… just lets him. Doesn't pull him back by the scruff of his neck, doesn't push him away, doesn't go stiff. Doesn't even say anything, just breathes in so fucking deep. Soap can feel the moan rising in his throat, can feel it make way through his huffed breaths. His cock leaks when his nose meets the droplets of sweat that are sliding down Ghost's throat, and if that is what Ghost smells like under his balaclava, it's fucking filthy, sweaty and disgusting, and Soap wants to live in it.
Breathe it in — breathe Ghost in — until that's all he can smell.
He pulls at Ghost until he's flush against him, pressing Johnny into that tree, closer. He needs something. Anything. Looks for whatever he can get, whatever Ghost will let him have before he inevitably pulls away, tells him off. Flees the scene, never speaks to him again. Soap's heart cracks when he thinks about it, but Simon's taste is still on his tongue and he's still—
There are fingers in his hair, scratching at his scalp. Against all odds not pulling him away, but pushing him closer instead, into Ghost's solid body.
"Johnny."
He never thought—
In all his dreams, he never even considered the possibility that Ghost would break first, say his name first, moan for him first, pull him closer first.
"Ghost— please, I need- please-" he sounds pathetic, fucking begging for it with his face pressed into his LTs skin like he's huffing glue, but he can't move away. He can't. He's so hard he thinks he might pass out if he comes, thinks he might as well if he doesn't. Ghost's hand tightens in his hair, softly tugging at the strands.
Soap whines. Urges closer again, though it stings in his skull, but there is no fucking way he is letting himself be removed even an inch. He's frantic, fucking desperate and he knows it. Doesn't care a lick, only cares about inhaling Ghost until there's nothing else in the world.
Simon's voice is soft and dark, wrapping around him like silk, enveloping him fully.
"What do you need, sweetheart?"
Sweetheart.
The second time he's ever said that, only this time he means it, and Soap's knees give out for just a second, and his heart pumps like he's about to die. He just might. Might've done already, honestly, seeing as this is his own personal heaven.
He groans, shifts, presses himself up against Ghost. Noses at his throat — sinfully uncovered, shining with sweat — and moans, throat already sore from screaming along earlier.
Ghost smells even better here, in the crook of his neck, just the tiniest hint of aftershave left. Makes Soap think about the time they all went out to a pub, a fancy one instead of their regular dive. Everyone a little dressed up, just enough to play it off, and Ghost, in a medical mask, just like now. Scent so fucking heavly Soap had to hide his hard on the entire night. Doesn't remember anything but that, all Ghost, everywhere. Almost got caught sniffing him, covered for it with a stupid joke.
Ghost's thigh bullies itself between Soap's, strong and corded with muscle, stretching the fabric of his cargos. And Soap whimpers, wet like a woman for it, leaking and begging. Buries his face in Ghost's armpit and inhales until he's dizzy with it.
Gloved fingers slip around his neck, pull him back, gentle but firm.
"Ask me." Ghost's voice breaks a little, sounds as wrecked as Soap feels. "Need to— hear you say it… please, Johnny."
Finally, Soap looks at his face. Dares to, scared in spite of everything that Ghost might pull away, decide he's had enough of it, stop indulging him. But Ghost's eyes are dark and hungry, pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his pale cheeks making his freckles stand out like little stars against a pale sky. He looks like wants to devour Soap whole, a frenzied predator, looking for a kill. Soap is more than willing to play prey for a little while.
His voice shakes a little, and he can't breathe, is too focused on the rough callouses on the hand that presses into the nape of his neck hard enough to bruise, slotting into the skin that's already mottled black and blue and yellow.
"Need you, Sir."
Ghost groans, spins them around so it's his own back against the tree, lets his head fall back. Pulls Soap with him, though, crushes his face into his own skin like he wants Soap to drown in it. And he would, given the chance.
"You have me. Fuck, you can— anything, Johnny. Take what you need, just—" He is urging him on, baiting him, luring him in like a shy animal. His free hand settles on Soap's hip, moves along with it as Soap grinds into him, small, desperate motions, chasing the friction. Barely any blood left in his brain, his cock so hard he can feel his pulse in it and dripping, soaking the cotton of his jockstrap. His balls feel fucking heavy, and he might come from this if he—
"Fuck." Soap breathes in again, revels in the heavy scent of sweat and musk. Blinks up at Ghost with wet lashes. "Please, Sir— please, can I-"
"Anything." Ghost growls it low into his ear, bends down to nose at Soap's clavicle. "Anything, Johnny. Anything for you."
Soap makes an embarrassing sound, wrenched from the depths of his soul, feels his heart go all fluttery as a spurt of cum slides down his thigh, and then he can't fucking stop.
"Fuck— Ghost, fuck, oh god-" he's babbling. Still can't seem to stop, cursing and rubbing himself off against Ghost's thigh through his orgasm, sudden and fucking gut-wrenching. Soaking his jock while he shakes and trembles his way through it, feeling his hole clench when he gasps for breath. And when he looks up, Ghost looks so gone on it he thinks he could come again just from the look on his face.
"Johnny," Ghost whispers, tender as a knife's edge to skin. Even quaking from his orgasm, come dripping down his thighs, Soap can't help it. He wants to kiss him so bad, he needs something. He pushes at Ghost's arm, digs his fingers into muscle until Ghost moves with a confused noise. Soap buries his face in the pit of his arm, properly this time, inhales until dots dance in front of his eyes. He blinks up at Ghost. And licks, a fat stripe through the sweaty hair of his pits, gorges himself on the salty taste.
He moans, feels his spent cock twitch beneath his kilt, rubbing against the damp fabric, still pressing into Ghost's leg. Ghost, whose own cock is a hard line against Soap's hip, deliciously thick and so tempting Soap would get on his knees right now if he didn't have his mouth on him already. Doesn't care that people might see, didn't stop him just now and won't stop him in the future.
He licks at Ghost's skin again, lapping up all the sweat, presses his hot mouth into him, his nose until it protests, broken too many times for the bone to bear it again, even for this, and Ghost's moans turn into quiet chuckles.
"You makin' out with my bloody armpit, Sergeant?"
The title goes straight to Soap's cock, stirring back to life, filling out again, just a little. He stops for a moment to stare up at Ghost's eyes, still dark, still hungry.
"Yessir." He sounds hoarser than he has after sucking dick, and he's not even offered yet. Fuck. He wants to. Wants to feel the heaviness of Ghost's balls on his tongue, know what the sweat there tastes like at the seam of them, find out if he shaves, hopes he doesn't. "Taste fucking good."
Ghost groans, knocks their foreheads together. His eyes slip shut for a moment.
"Shit, Johnny. Knew you'd be so fucking good."
He admits it, just like that. That he's thought about it. That he wants him. Has been wanting him. A smile tugs at the corners of Soap's mouth.
"Things ye won't admit under torture but offer up freely to me, aye?"
The scars always pull at Ghost's lips when he smiles, Soap can tell, but he loves the way his upper lip splits, loves how it reveals his teeth, eyes so fond it makes Soap's heart ache.
"'s like I said. Anything for you, Johnny."
Soap reckons he might die from the sheer way his heart wants to spring out of his chest.
"Fuckin' hell. Get down here an' kiss me then, ye big bampot."
Ghost bends down a little, then pauses. Grins.
"English, MacTavish."
"Och." Soap scoffs, can't help smiling in return, can't help the quiet moan that rings from his throat when Ghost shifts his thigh a little. "If- if ye don' ken wha' tha' means by now I cannae help ye, LT."
"Hm. Filing that under insubordination." Amusement clearly visible in the way his eyes crinkle, Ghost detangles a hand from Soap's hair, smoothes his thumb across Soap's cheek instead, rough fingertips on tan skin, and Soap can feel the blood rushing to his face.
"Never figured ye'd be such a softie," he jokes. It comes out more fond than teasing, and Ghost laughs quietly.
Soap wants to hear that sound again and again.
"Killin' you slow if you tell anyone," Ghost says. "Things you do to me, Johnny. Fuckin weak for you from day one."
And before Soap can think about it, grasp the implications, strong fingers tilt his chin up until he's staring into warm brown eyes, almost black in the darkness.
"C'mere, sweetheart. Waited long enough."
And Soap doesn't know whether Ghost is talking about himself or about Soap. Doesn't really matter anyways, not when Ghost slots his lips — a little chapped, a little dry, fucking perfect — against Soap's. It doesn't start out chaste, no chance of that with Soap's mouth already open, eager to taste more, but it's soft nonetheless. Like this was inevitable. Maybe it was.
Soap sighs. Melts into Ghost's solid body, lets himself be held, and runs his hands down Ghost's sides until he shivers, hips coming off the solid bark at his back to meet Johnny's.
Soap pushes his tongue into Ghost's hot mouth. Knows he still tastes like Ghost's sweat, doesn't care, cares less when Ghost moans into the kiss, shudders like he can't get enough of Johnny feeding him the taste of his own skin from his tongue.
"God, fuck," he whispers when they break apart for a moment. "Figured you'd be into some weird shit, Johnny. Do it again."
And—
At that exact moment, someone yells, really fucking loud, and really fucking close, and Ghost's head snaps up. He twists his neck, finds the offender, off to the side by the bar patting herself down with napkins.
"Fuck," he groans, pushes himself off the tree, easily takes Johnny with him. "Just because she spilled a little beer on herself, fuckin' hell."
Soap sways a little when Ghost lets go of him to adjust himself. He's trying to process what the fuck is happening. Where they are. What they did. What his own name is. Regular stuff.
"We should… probably head in," Ghost mumbles. Pulls Soap into his side, presses a kiss to his hair before he puts his mask back on. Immediately gains +10 points on the Put-Together-Scale, now that his swollen, blushed lips are hidden. "Don't wanna miss the show, right? Shouldn't be long before they're on now."
"Right," Soap says, a little dazed still. He stops abruptly when he realizes that— "Simon?"
"Hm?" Warm brown eyes turn towards him. Soap bites his lip, forces down the blushing of his cheeks as he stares at the fucking massive outline of Ghost's cock pressing against his zipper. He's not some fucking virgin, Christ alive.
"Ye… ye wan' any help with tha', or…"
Ghost grins down at him, sweat glistening on his forehead.
"It'll go down with time." He leans in close, and his words make Soap's cock twitch in a valiant effort to get properly hard again. "Had worse stiffies than that, Sergeant. Most because of you… and at worse times, as well. I'll live. Plenty of time for all that later."
He pulls back, eyes Soap up and down.
"My, my." He looks so fucking content with himself. "Look like you just got fucked, Johnny. Proper slag, you are."
"Feck off." Soap wishes it wasn't half a moan that wrestles out his throat. He bites his lip again. "We, uh… I gotta take a leak before we head in, though. Should probably get cleaned up as well."
He gestures vaguely toward his crotch, and Ghost follows his eyes. His pupils blow out, and his hand settles around Johnny's waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. Possessive. Soap's insides twist in a funny way that makes him want to say impossible things.
"Great idea." Ghost pushes Soap gently in front of him, crowds in close. "I'll come with you."
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Chapter 3 ⮜ ♦ ⮞ Chapter 5
new chap get horny with me,
lmk in comments/reblogs if u wanna be added to the taglist for this fic! reblogs are appreciated <3
Rating: Explicit
Wordcount: 4.6k
Summary: Soap's knee is fucked and Simon tapes it for him, surely just to be helpful. No other reason. They're both so normal about hanging out outside of duty.
CW: yearning, pining, still (for now) inappropriate ragers all around, jealousy, bit of Simon Riley's tragic backstory bc I cannae live without my angst
♦ My Masterlist • If you prefer AO3 ♦
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Chapter 3: High Water
Ghost is so fucked.
He doesn't fiddle with the kinesio tape. Doesn't, just… runs it between his fingers. He's done this before. Clinical. Clean. Keeping it tactical, as if anything about this whole weekend endeavour has been tactical.
"Can cut the pieces if yer not sure about the length," Johnny says, his cheeks so flushed and his breath so sweet, so close to Ghost's face when he bends forward to try and tug the tape out of Ghost's hands. Ghost does not let go.
Easier to get the angle right, what the fuck had he been thinking? Simon hasn't had any doubts as to where he'd end up in the afterlife for a long time now, but if he had, they would be gone now. One look at the way Johnny bites his lip, how his eyes go so big and wide, and all Ghost can think about is bending the man over the nearest surface to take what's his. What's not his, really, what he can never be owed, but the one thing he has allowed himself to deeply and truly want in years. Nearly decades now.
Soap is still staring at him.
"Nah, I can do it." Ghost clears his throat. "You just sit there and look pretty, yeah? Shouldn't be too hard for ya."
For fuck's sake. Seems Johnny's not the only one with problems keeping his mouth shut lately.
Soap shifts uncomfortably but doesn't object, gets his fucked knee up on the bed and angles it a little. Drapes his skirt — kilt, it's a fucking kilt, get it together — his kilt carefully to cover himself up. Thank fuck. A glimpse of his thigh might send Ghost careening over the edge right now, tight as his belly feels, cock already starting to leak again, pressing against his zipper, begging for attention.
Glimpse of Soap's cock might do Simon in entirely, as some dark corner of his mind supplies quite unhelpfully. Johnny's a man of tradition. Ghost knows, from the one other event where he's seen Soap wear this kilt: a funeral that saw Johnny on a wooden church bench only catholics could have devised, unpleasant in its shape as it was. Soap, though, had sat with his thighs spread indecently wide, like the most comfortable man on god's green earth. Kilt pulled tight across his thick legs, while Ghost'd had to stand next to the pulpit as they read the eulogy, and try his fucking hardest not to pop wood next to a coffin at the sight of Johnny's soft cock, on — not full display, but display enough, nestled between hairy thighs and covered by absolutely fucking nothing at all.
Ghost had miserably failed back then. Had to excuse himself before the wake after service, rub one out in an obscenely fancy bathroom. Hadn't taken any time at all, haunted by the thought of what Johnny had looked like, eyes so round and innocent as he'd slipped to his knees in prayer like a good catholic boy. And Ghost hadn't even had the decency to look away during any point, had kept his eyes locked on his Sergeant like a sniper, hungry, greedy, ready to move in for the kill. Ghost wouldn't even have needed that, not even Johnny on his knees. The sight of him brazenly presenting the world — in a fucking church, no less — with the gift of his bare cock would have been more than enough to make Ghost come in under a minute. Even if he has to bite back the thought that he should be the only one allowed to see Johnny like that. He's always been a possessive bastard. Never really learned to share the things he lov—
"Alright, LT?" Soap's voice interrupts his memory, and Ghost flinches away from the hand Johnny stretches out as if to settle on Ghost's bare arm. He can't take it right now, the thought of Johnny's warmth against his bare skin, can barely hold it together as it is.
"Fine, Sergeant." He doesn't look at Johnny, doesn't want to see the hurt in his eyes. Knows Johnny will think he's done something wrong if Ghost won't let him touch him, but doesn't have the words to explain or apologise. He's never been good at either.
Soap bites his lip while Ghost carefully sets the scissors to round the corners of tape strips he's cut. Compartmentalisation, now that's something he is fantastic at. Outstanding in his field. Can measure at a glance, even cut without as much as a shake of his hand, all while thinking of his subordinates fucking cock. Truly a gifted man, he is.
"Ye… if ye don' feel like it, ye dinnae have tae go with me, ye ken." Soap sounds so carefully neutral that Simon thinks seeing the look in his eyes might kill him on the spot. "I can go by mahself, I know crowds are not yer… yer thing. Or loud noises. Or any of all the shite comes with a concert, really. I don' mind. Can stay, too, if ye jus' wannae stay in, catch a movie."
What the fuck. Simon's been trying so hard not to fuck this up. Not any more than it already is, anyways. There is no way in hell he's not going with Soap. Has to keep his eyes on him. To make sure he's safe. Not because he'll anyone down who dares lay a hand on him. Of course not. And for Soap to blow off the concert — stay in, blow him instead —, fat fucking chance. Ghost is a selfish bastard, but never when it comes to Johnny. Borders on worshipful, even if he would never admit it. Price knows. Has thrown more than a few knowing looks his way when Ghost gives up his pudding cup because Soap is making puppy eyes at him. Or when he switches MREs with Soap without him even having to ask, because Ghost got his favourite. Doesn't matter what flavour Soap got. Tastes like pure fucking heaven when he gets to see the smile on Johnny's face as Ghost waves his packet in his direction like the offer only stands for a short time. So… no. There's no fucking way they're not going to this concert. Together.
Ghost shakes his head impatiently.
"Don't be a twat, Johnny. Came here for the concert, you're fucking going. We're both fucking going, stop treating me like I'm made of glass. Can handle crowds just fine or I wouldn't be any good at my job now, would I."
Soap shrugs.
"'s always different when it's a mission, I reckon. Know it is fer me." He holds up his hands when Ghost throws an annoyed look his way. "No' sayin' I won't take yer word fer it, though. Just seem… tense."
And yes, Simon is tense, but there is no reasonable explanation he can give Johnny under the circumstances. Sorry, Sergeant, I'm hiding a giant fucking stiffy from you. Why? Because you're the damn reason for it. Fuckin' hell.
"Be fine," Ghost grunts instead. He stares down at Johnny's leg. Fights down the urge to run his fingers through the dark hair, curling at its ends. Bites his cheek so he doesn't just push his whole fucking face between Soap's thighs. "Gonna be a bitch to take off, Johnny. Fucking jungle you're growing on your leg there, you sure you don't want to shave before I stick this on ya?"
Soap shakes his head impatiently.
"No time. Doesnae matter, I've survived worse, Jesus. Now who's actin' like the other's made of glass, eh?"
Ghost's lips twitch.
"Your funeral, Johnny." He breathes in. He breathes out. Places his hand on Johnny's leg to direct him. Soap shivers under his touch, but doesn't pull away. Doesn't say anything either, as Ghost gently guides his knee to the right angle. "Stay."
Johnny makes a choked sound, must be thinking of the pain of ripping the tape of later after all. But he stays. Doesn't even tremble as Ghost smooths down the first edge of tape just below his kneecap. Pulls it somewhat taut, sticks the other end down smoothly.
"Good lad." Ghost rips the backing of one of the longer pieces, thinks about the sky, kittens, his dead grandmother, the last time he slit a throat, anything not to think about how good Johnny's strong thigh feels underneath his fingers as he smoothes the top end down above his knee. Johnny's muscles are trembling, then he goes tense. Ghost pats his thigh lightly. "Relax for me, Johnny."
Soap exhales a shaky breath, and his thigh goes soft again. Ghost shakes his head.
"Christ, I'm not torturing you, Johnny. You alright?"
"Aye." Soap huffs another breath. "Sorry, must be the excitement of the concert gettin' tae me. Always get all giddy an' shaky beforehand, ye ken? All the anticipation, when it starts tae set in ye made it there, an' yer surrounded by all these other folks who love this stuff as much as ye do."
Ghost pulls the tape along the outside of Johnny's knee, sticking it down smoothly as he goes while keeping the tension, then relaxes it to stick down the end. Now, the same on the other side. Preferably without coming in his pants, no matter how fucking good, how right Johnny feels beneath his hands. His cock twitches. Ghost ignores it.
He's quick about it, efficient and steady, just like he is supposed to be. Mourns his own expediency, god he should have dragged this out more. Wouldn't have been wise, but he wanted to. Wants to. Wants Soap under his hands again, shivering, trembling, breathing unsteady but for all the right reasons this time. Simon takes a deep fucking breath. Crumples the discarded backings together and nods his okay to Soap, who stands up and smiles.
"Well done, LT! Can barely feel it, 's a fuckin' miracle. Always pulls at the hair usually." He pulls a face at the memory, and Ghost grins.
"What can I say? Gifted by god, these hands."
Johnny mumbles something he can't understand, but Ghost ignores him to trudge to the kitchen and put the crumpled backings in the bin. Adjusts himself in his cargos and wishes he already had his big hoodie on so he could pull it down, hide the line of his cock if not beneath more fabric then at least in shadow. He sighs. Why the fuck did he choose this shirt? Stupid. Stupid like only Johnny makes him stupid. Fuck.
"Come on, get your shoes on," he calls, just as Johnny appears in the bedroom doorway.
"Aye, on my fuckin' way. Christ, yer worse than my mum. Feel like I'm gonnae be late fer Christmas service, ye keep hecklin' me like tha'," he complains, but he's smiling. Ghost goes through his wardrobe until he finds his black medical mask. Johnny throws him a look.
"Could probably show up in yer regular costume, fit right in," he teases.
"Costume, is it?" Ghost slips into his combat boots and kneels to lace them up, just as Johnny does the same next to him, and fuck, but it's a sinful look when he gets up, bare calves teasing Ghost so close he could touch them if he wanted to. Barely a minute since he touched Soap's warm skin, but he already misses it. He wants to stay here, on his knees, lick his way up Soap's bare legs, between his thighs, sink his teeth into all that skin until Johnny's cock hardens, rub his face against it—
"Thought ye said we were gonnae be late," Soap remarks dryly. "Look who's dawdlin' now."
"Fuck off." Ghost ties his boots off, pulls his hoodie from the coat rack. Bad enough he'll expose his arms in a room full of strangers within the hour, no reason to do it in full public. Fucking baltic out, anyways. Ghost doesn't go anywhere in a t-shirt, really. Spars with long sleeves most of the time. Sweats in the summer rather than expose his scars. Wouldn't do it anywhere, if not for that look that Johnny sometimes gets when he looks at him, one Ghost had caught him with often by now, that hungry, dark look like he actually thinks Ghost's skin is something precious to be looked at, and not a cut up canvas of pain.
"Got the tickets?" he asks as he takes his keys from the hook.
Johnny rolls his eyes.
"On my phone. No printed ones, grandpa."
Ghost snorts.
"I'm three years older than you, MacTavish."
"Ancient, then. Practically calling from beyond the grave."
Ghost shoves him out the door, then pulls it shut behind them and elbows Soap in the side so hard he stumbles before he holds on to Ghost's arm and pokes him in the side in return.
"Concert's barely a fifteen minute walk from here, Johnny. Think you can make it, invalid that you are?" He gestures towards Soap's taped up knee. Soap chortles.
"Be more concerned about your own antique set of bones, LT."
They walk like that, prodding fun at the other, Johnny filling Ghost in on some of the band's history, how he'd found them in the first place. It's not far, like Ghost said, barely a fifteen-minute walk, and it feels shorter with Johnny to keep him company. It's mostly Soap telling stories while Ghost nods along, grinning sometimes. Smiling, when he's sure that Johnny isn't looking at him. Because Johnny can always tell, somehow, even under the mask. Ghost knows this, and it's driving him fucking mad. Nobody sees him smile as much as Soap MacTavish does. Nobody makes him smile as much, either.
There are a few small groups standing outside the venue when they arrive, more trickling in by the minute. Place doesn't open until 1900, but there's beer from a tiny outdoor bar, and smokers all around. Ghost checks the yard exits — he counts three — the doors into the venue — there is two on this side, a side entrance on the west side that he can see — and counts heads — there are, so far, seventy-three people here. He calms somewhat, this seems… manageable. Even if it ends up a few hundred people inside. He can do this. It will be alright.
Something inside Ghost settles when Soap slips his hand along the small of his back to guide him towards the shadows by the north side of the building without a word. Johnny's with him, and he's got his back.
"Have a cheeky fag with me?" Johnny asks, pulling one from his pack and lighting it. Closing his eyes and sucking the toxins in greedily, and Ghost thinks that he has never seen anything more beautiful than Johnny bathed in filthy half-lights, giddy with excitement. Soap looks around, then adds quietly, "Won't hold it against ye if ye don't, though. Lots of people."
Ghost considers it. Shrugs. Pulls his mask to the side to let it dangle from one ear.
"I'll survive." He snatches the cigarette from Soap's fingers to stick it between his own lips, more greedy for the lingering taste of Johnny's mouth than the nicotine. He inhales deeply anyways. Cigarettes taste like staking out a terrorist together, or like coming down together after an op. Taste like Soap, in any case, and there is nothing better in the world. He hands the fag back, then stiffens when he sees someone heading towards them.
"Incoming," he murmurs. Pulls his mask back up.
It's a handsome man that walks up to them, black battle vest stretched across broad shoulders, some unreadable band logo on the shirt that holds a belly like only strongmen have it, his arms freckled on dark skin, bare and muscular. He's almost as tall as Ghost is, but his tattoos aren't skulls and guns but lettering. Row after row etched neatly into his skin, unreadable in the semi-darkness. No weapons on his person.
He raises his hand a bit awkwardly. Ghost doesn't look at him. But he watches Soap smile. At this stranger. Doesn't think about how satisfying it would be to drag his knife through the letters that cover the man's arm until they're split in half and bathed in red. Doesn't think about dragging Johnny away, or at least into his own body, mark a claim he doesn't have. As if Soap would let him, he admits to himself with a pang in his chest. As if Soap would want that.
"Alright," the man half-asks, half-says, and just from that word, Ghost can tell he's from somewhere up north. "Sorry ta interrupt — bum a light off ya? Mine's all outta gas."
"Oh, aye." Under Ghost's watchful eyes, Soap pulls out his lighter. He curls one of his hands around the other man's cigarette, trying to shade it from the wind, while the other flicks the lighter open. Lights it for him, instead of just handing the damn thing over as would be decent. Ghost bites his cheek so hard he tastes blood. He's got no fucking right. None at all.
The man inhales, puffs out a billowing cloud of smoke. Smiles. Mostly at Johnny.
"Cheers— I'm Oscar," he says, and it's casual. Friendly. Doesn't look like the type of bloke who doesn't know when to leave well enough alone, but how the fuck would he know it's well enough in the first place when Soap keeps smiling at him like that. Looking like that, with lips wrapped so sinfully around a filter as he inhales. Ghost would do anything to be allowed to touch him in this moment. He digs his nails into his palm instead and watches Soap watching Oscar.
"John," Soap offers. Throws a look at Ghost, who makes no move to introduce himself. "Ye here with someone?"
Oscar nods and gestures towards a group by the bar.
"Yah, got some friends over there. None 'a them smoke, though." He grins, gives it a second. Soap hums in response, takes another inhale but doesn't ask any more questions.
Oscar takes a few puffs himself, eyeing the pair of them a little warily, then raises his cigarette when Ghost still doesn't say anything. Doesn't move. He hasn't blinked once since Oscar sidled up to them.
"Well, ta for the light." The man turns to leave, then throws over his shoulder, "Have a good time, you two!"
A creature with blackened teeth growls inside Ghost's chest. Wants to rip and maul. Wants to dig its canines into the soft flesh of Johnny's arm and drag him away, devour him whole and cover him in marks. He presses his palms into his eyelids. Oscar did nothing wrong. Wasn't even fucking flirting, really. He needs to calm the fuck down, but he's on edge, the earlier calm gone, disturbed by this stranger, however unknowingly.
Soap elbows him, grinning up at him.
"Ye right crabbit." He watches as Oscar slots himself back in with his group, three other people, evidently the mentioned non-smokers, but now each with a beer in hand. Ghost grunts.
"Speak English, Johnny."
Soap just laughs at him, offers him the fag again. Ghost is almost pissed off enough to say no. Almost. But any small taste of Johnny has never been something he could resist for long. A shared fag, shared waterbottle, shared spoon on one memorable occasion… fuck, he has let himself get greedy. Even careless. He pulls his mask down again and inhales deeply. Runs his tongue over his lips and tells himself that the way Johnny's eyes track the movement is just imagination. Bceause it is. Must be.
"Ye don' have tae be such a miserable cunt tae folk ye don't know," Soap elaborates, waves vaguely in Oscar's direction. "Doubt this lad's a secret agent about tae tell the government Simon Riley lives. Couldae told him yer name, at least."
"'s classified," Ghost says, but there's a smile tugging at his lips as he does. It's not hard to be gentle for Johnny. To smile at him. and pretend his scars don't pull until his lips expose an indecent amount of teeth. "Wouldn't have wanted me to kill the pretty boy, would ya?"
"Looked like ye wanted tae, anyways," Soap mumbles, and if he knew how close he was to the truth, he would leave Ghost standing alone in the darkness, most likely. Better off that way, too.
"Nah. Just didn't want him to call the whole gaggle over." Ghost sighs, then adds, "…sorry."
The way Johnny lights up when he smiles needs to be studied. Bright enough to power a whole fucking city.
"Nae, 's fine. Didnae really want him tae, either. Yer all the company I need."
That, finally, seems to appease the snarling creature inside Ghost's chest. It curls in on itself, settles down again. Ghost wants to push Soap up against the wall and make sure he knows just how true that is. The only company he'll ever need. God, it would be so easy: To slot his hand around Soap's throat, push his thigh between his legs, let him grind down until he's begging for it. If only there was a chance Johnny wanted it half as bad as Simon needs it. There's not, so he doesn't. Tells himself he is content just getting to watch him like this, alive, happy, buzzing with excitement. Tells himself it's enough, and it's almost true.
Just when he's about to ask Johnny for another fag, his own pack lying forgotten in his flat, the big double doors creak open and a truly ginormous woman appears. Her face is more piercing than skin and there's laugh lines around her eyes. She grins at the sight of everyone turning toward her.
"In ye go, ye thirsty lot!"
The small crowd hoots in response, and there's a shuffle as people try to form a halfway decent line for the security personnel to search them. Ghost stays just where he is, pulls his mask back into place. Content to wait out the first wave of enthusiasm just as long as Soap stays by his side.
Johnny leans in close. Way too close, his breath warm against Ghost's ear, Ghost's neck. Ghost wills away his cock's interest in that feeling.
"Go' yer knife safely tucked away, LT?"
Ghost raises an eyebrow.
"You say that like I'd only have the one." He allows himself another toothy grin, loves the way Soap's eyes light up even though Ghost's face is still half-hidden beneath dark polymer. Bastard always knows, though. He leans down until his mask brushes the blushing tip of Soap's ear. "Stashed where they'll never find them, Sergeant."
Soap makes a little noises, like a wounded animal, and Ghost pulls back. Soap's cheeks are flushed, his eyes fevered. He doesn't look at him until Ghost takes a step back, scoulding himself for taking it too fucking far. Now he's gone and made Johnny uncomfortable, the one fucking thing he is trying to avoid at all costs. Fucking tosser, he is. He opens his mouth to apologise, but Soap is already talking.
"Och, ye fuckin' chancer. All tae keep me safe from the big, scary Oscars of this world, aye?" He laughs to himself, then tugs at Ghost's hand to pull him towards the entrance. "Come on, I wannae look at the merch before the good stuff sells out!"
Simon sighs, but lets himself be dragged inside. True to his word, security finds no weapons on his person although he is carrying three knives. Would be concerning, how lax they are, if he didn't know he could easily take down any bastard who tried to do the same. He patiently stands in line as Soap acquires not one but two patches and a thick, comfortable hoodie. Even lets Soap wrest the promise from him to come back after the concert if he ends up liking the music to get a shirt for himself. They sidle towards the bar after, Soap gets a beer for himself, Ghost declines.
His hoodie stays firmly on for now; as long as they're not in the middle of the crowd, it's not unbearable, and the venue is not yet so full Ghost could blend in without being noticed, really. They stand around off to the side for a while, in comfortable silence, watching people together as they sometimes do on base. Don't even need to talk to point out certain things about certain people — one look, and they know. Soap spots Oscar again, gives him a little nod. Oscar waves back, but refrains from making his way over to them, and Ghost is glad for it. He's not sure he could have borne it a second time, having to stand by idly, watching another man get to touch Johnny, his Johnny, who isn't his at all, but keeps leaning into him.
Not just bumping shoulders, elbows, arms, but prolonged touches that make Ghost warm all over. Make him wish he had taken his hoodie off; make him consider doing it now, even though anyone could see. A strong, familiar hand settles on his shoulder and Ghost's eyes snap back towards Johnny.
"I gotta piss!" Soap yells into his ear. Ghost does as well, but it feels odd to say so now. So, he just nods. Leans against a wall as he watches Johnny go, kilt swinging around his knees as he makes his way through the crowd. Ghost blends into the background, and breathes in the atmosphere of the place. He used to love going to shows when he was young, did for a while even after he'd joined up. Before any task force, before Roba, before he was… Ghost. Back when he was still alive, and a person. He hasn't been in a long time. Not before Johnny. Wouldn't even have considered ever doing this again if not for him, but now that he's here, he remembers why he loved it so much. It's just like Soap said:
Something special in the air. All anticipation and excitement, and being surrounded by a whole crowd who loves the same shit. It's like the army on steroids, only people don't get excited over kills but over clean drum solos and shredding basses. Ghost remembers what his brother had said to him, when Simon came home from another show, bruised and exhausted and with ringing ears, but so fucking happy he couldn't stop smiling: Anything except therapy, eh? That'd been after the old man had already died, and Simon got to wear his smile around the house. Tommy had gone with him once, after that, and hated it. Don't get why you love that shite so much. Feels like a good beating from da all over again, Christ, Simon. And certainly, there is a type of violence to shows like this. Just— to Simon, it had always been different. Something he chose, something he could be an active participant in. Something where, despite the rough tone, people took care of each other at the end of the day. He'd stopped going after Tommy's death.
A familiar hand settles on his arm again. Johnny.
"Startin' tae fill up," Soap observes, then eyes Ghost. "Ye alright movin' further up? We can wait a bit, there's an opener on first, cannae remember their fuckin' name…"
Calm settles in Simon's bones. He looks around, takes in all the black on black on black, the Anti-Fascist stickers on the wall, the posters for future tours announcing Cattle Decapitation and Sarcófago and loads of names Simon can't decipher at all. He tilts his head, takes in Soap, who seems so happy in the midst of this that he is beaming with it. Simon shrugs off his hoodie and ties it around his waist.
"To the pit!" he proclaims, and for the first time in ages, lets happiness bloom in his chest until his cold heart feels like it's beating again.
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Chapter 2 ⮜ ♦ ⮞ Chapter 4
tagging my usual ghoaploving suspects for now, lmk in comments/reblogs if u wanna be added to the taglist for this fic! reblogs are appreciated <3
Rating: Explicit
Wordcount: 4.3k
Summary: Ghost can't keep it in his pants, but Johnny doesn't need to know. Or: Soap can't keep it in his pants, but Simon doesn't need to know.
CW: still yearning, pining, idiots in love, but now we also got: masturbation, praise kink, dacryphilia, honestly excessive amounts of cum but it's hot let me live, scent kink, fantasising about oral, soap mactavish is a masochist and a painslut he's just like me fr.
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Chapter 2: Head First
Ghost slides into the bathroom and expels a breath of relief.
Usually, he is better at denying himself the things he wants. Not when it comes to Johnny. It's become a bit of a problem, if he's honest with himself. Rampant favouritism, that. No one seems to care too much though, and Price clearly has his own favourite if the way he keeps looking at Gaz's ass is any indication.
Ghost sheds his clothes, piles them on top of the cistern so they don't get wet, and regards his cock with an angry stare. Fucking traitor that it is, flushed and painfully hard and leaking all through dinner, until Ghost was afraid the stain might be visible when he gets up inspite of his black trousers. But Johnny didn't seem to notice, too focused on the Rugby player of his choice, some lad named Jack Mann, of all things, a name that led to many, many terrible jokes during the course of their meal.
Ghost spilled some steaming hot chicken on himself when he heard Johnny mumble under his breath about how he'd like to jack that man. Fuckin' hell. But Soap didn't notice that either — Ghost has always been good at hiding his pain.
His cock twitches hard at the memory of Johnny, and Simon quickly steps into the shower before he leaves a fucking mess on the bathroom floor like a damn teenager. He can just imagine it, though: Soap's fingers wrapped around his cock, how perfectly they'd fit. Maybe even stroke up his thighs beforehand, tracing his scars.
Ghost scoffs to himself, he sounds so lovesick he'd be embarrassed if he had any pride left when it comes to Johnny, but he really, really doesn't. So he wraps his fist around his own cock, and tries his best to imagine it's Johnny's, so much warmer than his own, so much better. He just knows it. Trails his fingers down to his taint, plays with his balls a little although he can't take much of it. He's been too hard for too long to drag this out.
Johnny had laughed at him when Ghost said he wanted to shower before the show, pointed out that they'd be sweaty after anyways, but let him go with a shrug.
Simon can imagine him now though, stepping inside the tiny cubicle behind him although there's barely enough space to fit by himself. How Johnny would have to press up against him, fit himself into Ghost's ridges and divots, two halves of a whole. He'd sneak a hand around him, cheeky, bold like he is, maybe not tease, not this time around, but press his lips between Simon's shoulderblades as he starts to move his hand. Not too slow, at just the right pace, just this side of too rough with it, a little impatient. Easing the glide by collecting the precome beading at Simon's tip before the water washes it away, and fuck, Simon has to squeeze himself harder. Wants to enjoy this as much as he can, even if he's already out of time.
He thinks about how warm Johnny always feels, like a little furnace. About that stretch of hair that leads down to the root of his cock, dark curls covering him everywhere, his chest, his arms… Simon wants to paint patterns in that hair, wants to press his face into Johnny and let himself find comfort. Let himself be taken care of. Johnny would take good care of him, so attentive when he wants to be.
Simon wishes so desperately he was here now, that this wasn't just a daydream while he strokes his swelling cock, ignores his balls in favour of just one minute more of this pretend-pleasure. Thinks about Johnny, flattening his cheek against Simon's skin like he wants to melt into him. Maybe even encouraging him, with noises, with praise, telling Simon how good he's being, how patient he's been. How much he loves getting to see him like this, coming undone, and how much he'll enjoy taking him later. How much he wants his whole fucking load, wants to be pumped full as much as Ghost wants to fill him—
Simon's hand moves faster, pushing him towards the edge he was close to from the start of this, and he bites his lip so he doesn't moan. He's not usually loud, but something about this, about Johnny just outside this door, splayed on his bed, about to sleep in his sheets later… He shudders, his stomach tightening, but there's just something missing, a piece of the puzzle needing to slot into place.
Simon thinks about Johnny's mouth, those pink lips, how much he'd enjoy pushing his fingers between them. How he wants to test Soap's limits, see how much he can take before he starts to choke on it, see how much it might take to make him cry—
He digs his finger into his slit, meanly, roughly… and then lets go all at once, spilling across his hand until his legs are shaking with it. The afterimage of tears clumping Johnny's long lashes together burns behind his eyelids, and so does the guilt in his stomach as he watches the rest of his load be washed down the drain.
This is far from the first time that he has indulged himself like this, letting himself think about his Sergeant while he gets off. Not even the first time he has done it while Soap was close to him, nor the closest Soap has been to him while Ghost was wanking. He recalls a time in Peru, in the shittiest safehouse on the planet, just one room and a separate outhouse. How he'd laid there, listened to Johnny's breathing even out before he took himself in hand, fast and rough like he sometimes needs it, stopping just in time not to spill into his sleeping bag. Would've been an uncomfortable night if he had.
This is the first time Simon has done this with Johnny so close in his own home, though. It feels… strangely intimate.
He quickly veers away from this train of thought when his cock starts to stir to life, balls already feeling full again. He doesn't have time for this shit right now. Barely had time to get off once. This has to be enough. Has to be. Even if it never is.
The water is nice. Better pressure than his shower on base by miles, and Simon has always enjoyed the spray of water, despite all the waterboarding he has endured in his lifetime. Ghost gives himself time for a cursory wash, glad that his hair isn't too long now and will easily dry before they have to head out. Towels off and stalks towards his bedroom to find out if he still has some civvies stashed in the place. He can wear his cargos from before, but maybe… maybe there's an old shirt or two in his dresser, one of the bands he listened to when he was younger, when he still had time for that shit.
Johnny's lounging on the bed when he enters, casual as ever. Barely looks up when Ghost steps into the room, tapping away on his phone. Probably texting Gaz. His cheeks are flushed though, and when his eyes meet Ghost's for the fraction of a second, there's something… something in them Ghost can't quite place.
"Alright?"
"Aye, ta." Soap wiggles around, pulls his legs in and sits up. "Gaz is askin' whether ye've decided where tae bury my body yet. Says he cannae believe ye'd actually agree tae let yerself get dragged tae a concert in this shitty town. Says it's gotta be a ruse tae get me alone."
It is. Shouldn't be, but is. Just not for reasons either Johnny or Gaz would ever imagine.
"Tell 'im I'll take a video for him if I do. Something to remember your mug by, that's punishment enough for an eternity."
Ghost rummages through his tiny dresser in search of something wearable. He brought shirts from Base, his usual black on black, and those would work well enough for the show, but… this is special. To him, at least, if not to Johnny. He's trying to impress Soap, there's no two ways about it. Finds what he's looking for when his fingers dig into soft, almost thread-bare material, washed so often that it's more grey than black. Ghost pulls it out triumphantly.
Soap whistles through his teeth.
"Cannae go wrong with Meshuggah, eh?"
Ghost grunts his agreement and pulls the shirt over his head. One of his first shows, and he kept it. Logged it with him from place to place, and finally retired it here, some years ago now, only to be worn as a comfort when Price banishes his to this flat.
Soap watches him as he pulls out a fresh pair of briefs, then makes his way over to his bag to dig through it for the other pair of cargos he brought. Ghost turns to him.
"Get dressed, Sergeant. Leaving at 1830 sharp."
Soap pouts after him as Ghost traipses towards the bathroom again, unwilling to drop the towel right now, already chubbing back up beneath the terry cloth at the feeling of Soap's eyes on him.
"No free show?" Soap calls after him, and Ghost chortles.
"You're paying tonight, sweetheart."
Fuck. Shouldn't have said that.
Soap shakes his head, bites his cheek. Fuck, if Ghost had any idea what it does to him when he says shit like that, he… wouldn't be saying it anymore.
Scrunching his nose, Soap throws his legs down from the bed, careful of the soaked tissues in the pocket of his hoodie. It was a truly fucking spectacularly terrible idea to jerk off while Ghost was off in the shower, but— he couldn't help it.
Ghost cooking for him, Ghost stirring a pot like it's the most normal thing in the world, Ghost's wide-eyed expression when he misunderstood him… Or rather, understood him exactly as he wanted to be understood, even if Soap had to cover for himself.
Then Ghost's smell in this bedroom, and the feeling of his pillow beneath Soap. Even if he doesn't sleep here often, it's still Ghost's. And Johnny is so fucking weak, is so easy when it comes to Ghost, it's fucking embarrassing, is what it is.
Wasn't a conscious decision, really, either: to cup himself through his sweats, biting his lip to keep from moaning at how good it feels to finally release some of that tension, even if by feeding it. To let himself think about Ghost's hands, strong, rough, touching him when he pushed Soap out of his way at the grocery store to get something on the upper shelf Soap couldn't quite reach. So fucking big, so strong, and decisive.
Soap pushes his sweats down before he can think better of it, just enough to get his cock out, just enough so he'll have a chance at pulling them up in time if Ghost decided to end his shower early. He doesn't usually take long in the shower, Johnny knows this, knows his entire regimen by heart, but Soap won't need long either. Was weeping throughout dinner, talking about his favourite Rugby player and hoping Ghost won't notice that it's not the player he's looking at, not the player he wants so fucking desperately he can't breathe right.
The first stroke feels like pure relief, the second like he's close already, and Soap grips the base of his cock tight, unwilling to give in just yet. He really has no time for savouring, but he wants to enjoy this: To bury his nose in Ghost's pillow and breathe him in while he comes. With shaking hands, he pulls the pillow out from underneath his head, presses it to his face instead. He'll hear it if the shower shuts off. It'll be fine.
And he lets himself sink into it.
He's really here. Really in Ghost's apartment, in Ghost's bed. They'll be going in a moment, but Ghost is doing this for him, has all but admitted it. Did what Soap wasn't brave enough to ask for, and now they're here, shopping for fucking groceries together, cooking together — even if Ghost teases him relentlessly through it — a fact that only made Soap harder, only made him want to beg more, want to please more, want to be good more.
He'd wanted to wrap himself around Simon at that stove, to cling to his broad form and lick up his back. To sink to his knees and ask him if he'd ever let Soap suck him off, it doesn't even have to mean anything, not to Ghost, though it'll mean everything to Soap. He can live on that though, just the taste of Simon on his tongue, maybe it'll calm that deep empty feeling inside his stomach that has gnawed at him for months now. Maybe, if just once, he got to feel the weight of Simon on his tongue, got to lap at him, see if he makes any sound at all, see if Soap can get him to.
Soap is glad for the pillow over his face now, can't keep in the low moan that wrenches itself out of the depths of his chest. The water is still running, he might have some time, maybe Ghost takes longer when he's home, scrubs himself, though Soap had laughed when Ghost'd said he wanted to shower before the concert. Surrounded by a hundred sweaty bodies, bumping into each other, gripping and grabbing so nobody falls, in the pit they take care of each other, and it might be Soap's favourite place on earth. More than once he's gotten a good lay out of a concert, mostly guys with long hair and longer beards, tattoos and piercings Soap is not allowed to have, and so eager to prove either how manly they are or how good they can be. The best wanted to prove both, and Soap is nothing if not a willing helper in those endeavours.
He hasn't gone in over a year now, hasn't had the time. If he had, he's not sure he would have looked for someone there. He's sure he would not have, in fact, hasn't on any of the nights they went to the pub even if it would have been easy enough, but all Soap has had eyes for in so long now is Ghost. Ghost's eyes, Ghost's shoulders, Ghost's arms and his stupid fucking tattoos. Ghost's hands, too often gloved, but fucking beautiful when they break someone's neck. Or spine. Johnny nearly came when Ghost mentioned that earlier, and doesn't even care how fucked up that makes him. He thinks about Ghost's lips when he takes a drag of his smoke, and the scar that slices them in two, red and angry still, and Soap wants to kiss it. He would beg for a chance to be let into Simon's mouth just once, if he'd ever thought he stood a chance, but he didn't. Not until tonight.
Got no taste for women.
Jesus, but Soap almost asked to be bent over right then, wanted it, wanted Ghost to want to. He buries his face in the pillow and breathes him in, his breaths lost in the feathers and the cotton.
He's wet thinking about it now, cock leaking so much he's afraid he might stain Ghost's sheets, but then he shudders at the thought and his stomach goes all tight. To have Ghost sleep between those sheets tonight, unknowingly covered in Soap's spend—
Soap bites his lip, hard this time, hard enough to break the skin, and wishes it was Ghost's. He must be nearly done, and Soap's hand moves faster on his cock, easy with how slick he is, and he's so close, so fucking close, and he wants to come so bad— I prefer to be the big spoon, Johnny— and god. He can just imagine what it'd feel like to have Ghost press up against him, hard and thick and delicious, though Soap has seen his cock less than he's wanted to, has only ever caught glimpses of the root of it, of the thick, golden hair at the base of it when Ghost has pulled his jeans off to sleep or change, and Soap still knows, is so sure, that he'd fill him exactly and to the brim, that he'd feel perfect as he made himself at home inside Soap's body—
The shower turns off,and Soap can't hold on any longer. Tumbles off the edge like he's been close to it for weeks, mumbles to himself, fuck fuck fuck, has to try so hard to keep quiet and hope he makes it in time.
Still reeling, and his hand shaking, he reaches blindly for the box of tissues he spotted on Ghost's nightstand earlier. He has to make a conscious effort to open in his eyes, and fuck, but he hasn't come this hard, hasn't come this much in ages, his load covering his stomach and he's glad he pushed his hoodie up. Quick as he can manage, he wipes himself down, and just as he ponders whether he has the time to throw the tissues away, he hears the bathroom door open.
"Fuck," he whispers, then stuffs the tissues into the front pocket of his hoodie. He'll have to throw them out later. He pulls his pants up, throws the pillow back behind his neck to sit up, and just in time, manages to pick up his phone to look busy, pulling up his chat with Gaz when Ghost enters the room.
He is more naked than Soap has nearly ever seen him, clad in just a towel, no mask. And Soap watches, in quiet fascination, can't help it, all those scars, all that skin and muscle. He wants to coat every inch of Ghost in his spit, in his cum, even his blood if only that let him lay claim to the man.
Ghost throws him an amused glance.
"Alright?"
Fuck no, Soap's not alright. He's a half-second away from coming in his pants like a teenager, even though he just came. He shifts, hopes Ghost won't notice the already suspicious bulge where he's beginning to firm up again. Tries to think of something else, anything else, as Ghost turns away to rifle through his drawers, anything but the droplets running down his broad back that Soap wants to lick up so desperately.
"Aye, ta." He can hide it, he's a fucking soldier, been trained to hold his breath, make it go quiet, but he's struggling now. He needs to come up with a fucking answer, right now. He glances at his phone and gladly takes the out. "Just… Gaz, askin' whether ye've decided where tae bury my body yet. Says he cannae believe ye'd actually agree tae let yerself get dragged tae a concert in this shitty town. Says it's gotta be a ruse tae get me alone."
Ghost grunts, digs deeper into the next drawer. What the fuck is he looking for in there, looking sinful as that? Soap surreptiously sits up more to pull his hoodie over his hardening cock. Fuckin' hell, this weekend might kill him.
"Tell 'im I'll take a video for him if I do. Something to remember your mug by, that's punishment enough for an eternity."
Soap tries very much not to imagine Ghost taking any videos of himself doing anything at all to Soap. He fails miserably, and if he hadn't laughed at Ghost earlier for taking a shower, he'd be begging for one now.
Ghost pulls out an old, ratty shirt, but when Soap sees the band logo and the tour dates on the back as Ghost unfolds it, he can't help but whistle. Who knew the LT had such taste?
"Cannae go wrong with Meshuggah, eh?"
Ghost doesn't answer, just pulls the shirt over his head. Soap mourns the loss of skin to stare at, though it might be better this way, and the shirt is not doing much covering in either case. Ghost must've bought it when he was a size smaller, if not two. It still fits, but it's snug, more fitted than anything Soap has ever seen him wear. Ghost orders all his hoodies a size too large, which means something looking at the size of him, but he likes to hide his bulk much as he can, make himself boxy and shapeless.
Soap tries to be subtle, he can look his fill tonight, hidden by a crowd, under the guise of checking in. The sleeves are cut off just enough that some of the hair from Ghost's pits spills out, and fuck if Soap hasn't been desperate to bury his nose in there. How the fuck is he supposed to cope now?
Ghost, thankfully, does not seem to notice his dilemma, and just pulls a pair of briefs from another drawer before he picks up cargos from his duffle. And Soap never thought Ghost would change in front of him, but he still can't help the pang of disappointment as Ghost turns to make his way to the bathroom again.
"Get dressed, Sergeant. Leaving at 1830 sharp."
Soap pouts after him, but is almost glad to get at least a minute to himself to get dressed. He'll have to speed change, make sure Ghost doesn't catch him with a hard on and leaking. Fuck, but the things Soap would let that man do to him— wants him to, so badly it makes his chest feel all tight. Can't help his big mouth though, for all his caution. Never could.
"No free show?"
Soap hears Ghost chuckle in response, and that was worth throwing caution to the wind.
"You're paying tonight, sweetheart."
The bathroom door closes behind him, and Soap presses his lips together to stifle his moan. Sweetheart. He never calls him that, not even as a joke. Never. Gaz does, sometimes, calls him love, and honey if he's feeling frisky. Price says son, on one memorable occasion dear, though his face was so red after that slipped out that Soap could've fried an egg on it. But Ghost… Ghost never calls him anything but Johnny, and it's sweeter from his tongue than any pet name from another. Christ, Soap is so gone on him.
Hastily, he tries to pull himself together, digs out his kilt, and some band shirt he's scrounged up from the bottom of his closet on base. Mourns the fact that he doesn't have his battle jacket here, would've been nice to wear it. Been ages since he got to. The kilt is a bit tight around his waist, he's gained a few pounds since he last wore it, some funeral for one of the brass, and then he never took it back home again, but he makes it work.
He considers putting on underwear for once. Would prefer to go without it, especially under the kilt — he is a man of tradition, after all — but there is no hiding a fucking stiffy in a skirt, and the pit gets dirty, and as much of an exhibitionist as he can be, but he'd prefer to end the evening without getting various bodyparts rammed into his bare crotch. He only brought two pairs — some boxers and a jockstrap, and before he can think better of it, he chooses the jock. Better some freedom than none at all. If anyone lifts his skirts too high, all they'll get is a view of his hairy arse, and Soap is more than fine with that.
The bathroom door opens, and Soap quickly slips into the jock and pulls it up under his kilt, hating the feeling already.
Ghost appears in the doorway, properly dressed now, and eyes Soap up and down.
"You good to go?" His voice is rough and dark, and Soap has to resist the urge to fall to his knees. Instead, he busies himself digging through his bag to produce some earplugs from it, but his hand bumps into something else.
"Oh feck it all tae hell," he mumbles, then turns to Ghost. "I gotta tape my knee. Nearly fergot. Prefer not tae put too much strain on it outside of combat if I can, an' it's the standin' that really gets me, ye ken. Won't be five minutes, if ye bring me some scissors I can do it mahself."
Ghost nods quietly, and Soap hears him shuffle to the kitchen, then return with a rusty pair of scissors in hand. He nods at the roll of tape in Soap's hands.
"Medical didn't give you a brace?"
"Aye, they did…" Soap scrunches his nose. "Don't like wearin' it, though. Feels too much like mah bloodflow's cut off."
"Get a size up," Ghost mumbles, then gestures towards the bed. "Sit down. I'll tape it for you."
A flush creeps up Soap's neck, he can feel it, and it's a cursed feedback loop, to blush under Ghost's eyes, then blush harder at knowing he's being perceived. Hell's fuckin' bells.
"I can do it mahself," he reiterates, but it's a weak protest. Ghost's jaw is set in the way Soap knows means he won't be changing his stance. Happens on missions sometimes, too. Even Price knows there's no convincing him when he gets that expression.
"Better if someone else does it," Ghost says, matter-of-factly. "Easier to get the angle right."
And Soap chokes a bit, wonders if Ghost even knows what the fuck he sounds like, talking like that, sitting in his bed, next to Johnny, about to touch him and oh god.
Soap is so fucked.
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Chapter 1 ⮜ ♦ ⮞ Chapter 3
once again tagging my usual suspects for now, lmk in comments/reblogs if u wanna be added to the taglist for this fic.
@purgetrooperfox @ulchabhangorm @gibsalotdoodles @lee-kestrelrain @pinkiemme @tomothythethird @patchmates and special honours to @daimyosprincess come join my cult
Rating: Explicit
Wordcount: 5.2k
Summary: Soap's favourite band comes to town and who better to take him than Ghost, who hates loud noises, crowds and physical contact, but loves Johnny's smile. Not that he'd ever tell him that.
CW: yearning, pining, idiots in love, terrible flirting, fantasising, blood kink, inappropriate erections.
♦ My Masterlist • If you prefer AO3 ♦
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Chapter 1: Tsunami Sea
“Mah favourite band’s in town.”
The statement is so sudden, so out of the blue that it rips Ghost from his half-slumber in an instant. The rec room is near dark, lit only by the flickering light of the TV, long deserted by most everyone. There's a footie rerun on, and neither of them is really watching. Ghost couldn’t even say which teams are playing. It’s just good background noise while their ears are still ringing from a shitty op with too little intel and too many bloody explosions.
Ghost’s eyes flick over to Soap, who is glued to his phone screen. There is an oddly worried wrinkle on his forehead, right between his thick brows, though his expression is one of joy.
Ghost wants to smooth that wrinkle with his finger, even though his glove is still blood-stained. He doesn't. Cocks his head instead. Thinks of something to say, though his brain feels wrapped in layers and layers of exhaustion.
“That so.”
Spectacular effort, Riley.
“Aye.” Soap has never sounded this thrilled, a slight tremble to his voice where only a boatload of C4 has ever made him light up like this. “Never thought– well, ye ken– always away on missions, but Cap promised us some downtime and I reckon–”
He’s mumbling, words overlapping more than not, his accent broad and thick from exhaustion and excitement. Ghost’s chest aches with it, and with the happiness that is painted so clearly on Johnny’s face. For all his rambling, though, his fingers are not moving, he is still merely staring at his screen. Mesmerised. Mesmerising, with those long lashes and the bunched up muscles of his shoulders, pulled up towards his ears like he's bracing for impact.
Ghost watches him some more, eyes full of sleep, head full of fuzz and tired longing. And Soap makes no move. Still as a fucking sniper. Until Ghost can’t bear it anymore.
“Ya gonna get tickets then or what, Johnny?”
Clearly he wants to go.
That seems to rip Soap from his trance. He looks up from his screen for the first time, blue eyes wide and scared and so full of hope. He’s chewing on his lip, worrying at it until even in the dim screenlit night, Ghost can see the crimson staining his tongue when he licks it.
He'd give anything for a taste. Won't give in, though. Can't. Would change the way Johnny looks at him, touches him, leans into him, talks to him. Can't risk it.
“Och, I don’– I shouldnae.”
Ghost rolls his eyes. Doesn't pull Johnny into his arms like he wants to, doesn't soothe him with lips on his skin and hands in his hair. Keeps it tactical. Wants to be tactile, like Soap is with everyone, but can't afford it. Means too much coming from him, because he's not like Johnny. He settles for words. More than anyone else would get already.
“Shouldn’t what? You want to see them. Go on. Worst that happens, we get called in, you’re out— what, like thirty quid?”
Soap is still staring at him.
“No’ even sure there’s tickets left anymore- Ah didnae even– fuck, wha’ if-”
He's chewing on his lips and his cheeks are flushed, and his cold feet are digging into Ghost's thighs, wiggling around. Never could keep still, his Joh— not his. Not at all.
Finally, Ghost sits up, leans over to stick his head out and take a look at Johnny’s screen. Gets distracted a little by Johnny’s scent, still salty and sweaty. They should’ve showered before crashing, but it just wasn't in the cards. A small nap, he told himself, and here they are, like so often, right next to each other, still covered in grime and blood, and Johnny smells so delicious Ghost wants to eat him whole.
He redirects his eyes from the splatter of blood in the corner of Johnny’s mouth to the dim glow of the phone screen in his hand, even though if he just leaned a little closer, he could lick—
“Says Buy here,” he remarks dryly. “Wha’, ya somehow un-learned how ta read?”
His accent is thicker, just like Johnny's, when he gets tired like this. Clings to him like an unwanted child, little Simon Riley, aged seven, looking for a foster home. He presses his lips together.
“Have no’!” Soap sounds so defensive it could almost be funny, if there wasn’t that look in his eyes. “Ah jus’... wha’ if ah ge’ all excited aboot goin’ an’ then some fuckin’ terrorist decides it’s a good day tae plague a nation an’-”
Ghost’s knee knocks against his when he sits up proper, and Johnny pulls his feet out from under him.
Fuck. Ghost wants them back, craves Johnny's warmth worse than nicotine. He's so hard to stay away from, impossible to keep a distance when everything about him is so warm and inviting.
“-an’ Ah’d have tae go tae the concert all by myself, there’s no way in hell Gaz’ll come, calls my music shite all the time, the cheeky fuck, ‘n Cap is a fuckin’ grandpa when it comes tae culture, ye ken– likes the fuckin' Cure an' all tha', doesnae go fer the heavier stuff—”
Gloved fingers slip around Johnny’s tense hands, wrestle his phone from his grip. The words are out before Ghost can stop them, and he bites his tongue so hard he tastes iron.
Johnny would taste so much better. He doesn't think about it.
“Give it here. I’ll book ‘em, ya won’t jinx it, I’ll go with ya. Done deal, Sergeant.”
Soap is staring at him, wide-eyed, round-lipped, with that blush that creeps up his neck like one of Michelangelo’s fucking cherubs, because God has never been fair.
“Ye hate people.” Johnny sounds so matter-of-fact that Ghost snorts, his own breath hot under his mask.
“Yup.”
“Ye’ll come with me?”
“Yup.”
“Ye know the band, aye?”
“Nope.”
Sharp teeth start worrying at dried and damaged lips again, and Ghost wants to suck them into his own mouth, wants to lick the blood from their cracks, kiss them until they’re flushed and rosy and burn from the stubble on his cheeks. Claim them for his own. As it is, he can only watch Soap lap up the crimson without paying it any mind, wasting it. Everything about him should be worshipped.
Johnny is still staring at him.
“Then why would ye come with? Are ye fuckin’ daft, this’ll be hundreds of people piled high. Loud as shit, I ken ye go’ tha’ thing with yer ears–”
“Johnny, I know how a fuckin’ concert works, alright? Don’t think too hard about it.” Ghost clicks ‘Buy’ before Soap can protest any more, then hands his phone back with a dry smile. “Gave ‘em your email though. No way I’m giving those data miners my name.”
He slaps a hand on Johnny’s shoulder, squeezes as tight as he can get away with. Watches in satisfaction as Johnny’s pupils blow wide, and he gets that hungry look in his eyes. Ghost hasn’t earned it. Savours it anyway.
“Guess ya got lucky, Johnny. Better get on your knees and pray that Price comes through on the leave.”
Fuck, he shouldn’t have said that. Johnny looks like he is about to slip to his knees right here and now, and if he did, Ghost would not be a strong enough man to withstand him. Stronger men have failed, Ghost has the evidence of it burned into his brain, of Soap kneeling on the disgusting tiles of the loo somewhere the fuck middle of nowhere, just to get his throat stuffed. Just not by Ghost. Never once has he said anything. Banter on the comms doesn't count, is not real, can't be taken seriously. Everyone does it, and Johnny's just like that and Ghost shouldn't read into it.
He sighs, rubs his face. Needs to forget that memory, forget the stranger that got to have what Simon has wanted for so long, forget he followed him in there hoping it was all for him, only to see that stranger slipping into the stall after Johnny. Not for him, never for him. The one time he gave into weakness. The disappointment still stings, that crack in his heart. Not mine.
Forget about it, Riley. Friendship's not in the field manual, much less fraternisation.
Johnny is still staring at him, with those flushed cheeks, chewing on his lips to keep his oral fixation sated, and Ghost has to go before he says something really stupid. Does something really stupid, like joke about how Soap could pay him back, how he's got something to keep that mouth busy, how he wants to—
“Go get some shut eye, Soap. ’s an order if it needs to be, yeah?”
Soap is beaming at him, and there is nothing – nothing – in the whole world Ghost would not do to get that look on his face again. To witness it. To be the cause of it, even if indirectly. Johnny nods earnestly.
“Aye, Sir. See ye bright ‘n early fer some sparrin’ tomorrow?”
“No rest for the wicked,” Ghost grunts, and pushes himself up from the couch. God, but now that he is not half-asleep anymore, he can’t wait for his bed. Proper mattress and all. Even if Soap’s not in it. Even if he shouldn't be thinking about that.
Johnny’s hand closes around his wrist, and because it’s Johnny, Ghost doesn’t pull away but leans into it instead. Just enough that Soap won’t notice, just enough that it’ll tide over that hunger that resides deep inside Ghost, enough that he has something to wank over and add to the guilt he keeps shoved deep inside his wretched soul. Soap squeezes, and Ghost wishes he bruised more easily.
“LT, I… thank ye.”
Ghost knows his eyes crinkle beneath his mask when he smiles, even with the eyeblack still on, even in the dark, Johnny will be able to tell. He really couldn’t give less of a fuck right about now.
“Don’ mention it, Johnny.”
_______________________
Price does come through on the long-promised leave. It’s a week instead of two, and it’s accompanied by a stern look and an even sterner ‘phone turned on and on your person at all times, you hear me? Go tell the others, Simon.' And, an even sterner, but much quieter 'Don't do anything I wouldn't do, son.'
But he comes through.
And so, the next day sees Ghost tracking down Johnny to deliver the good news himself. Soap is right out the shower when he opens his door, only a tiny towel wrapped around his waist, the layer of fat on his stomach covered in thick, dark hair, and Ghost will never get used to it. He has seen Johnny in various states of undress more often than not, has heard him piss and wank and all sorts of stuff nobody should hear another person do, but he is always undone when it comes to this, right here – Johnny safe and sound, on base. Getting to look at him in a way that feels almost domestic. Makes all his blood rush south so fast he gets dizzy, and he can't think.
Soap clears his throat and Ghost realises he is still standing in the doorway, just staring at the lovely blush creeping up Johnny’s ample chest. He needs to fucking sort himself out, but for now, he has an excuse to be here.
“Price said leave’s on. Got a week.”
Soap’s smile is blinding, wide and white and drenched in happiness.
“Ah get tae go hoooome!” His voice is a sweet sing-song. Ghost's mouth twitches under the balaclava. “Ah get tae go back home, god knows Ah have nae visited mah grams in months, thank fuck the old lass is sturdy an’ alive–”
Suddenly, his fists grab Ghost by the lapels, and Ghost doesn’t look down, he doesn’t, can’t be thinking about that tiny towel too much–
“The concert!” Soap sounds slightly panicked. “Ah don–”
Ghost stares at the tan hands that tug at his collar and pushes down a smile. Wills down his cock while he's at it, chubbing up, pressing against the zipper of his cargos. He needs to get a fucking grip.
“Didn’t even look at the date, did ya? Concert’s tonight. First day of leave, Johnny. Book a flight the day after, yeah? Still gives ya five days home.”
Soap’s eyes grow wide and huge, and Ghost is almost certain that he is going to start jumping up and down if he doesn’t tell him to calm down. He still doesn’t. He's got faith in the towel.
“Ever the optimist, ye are, LT! Fuck, Ah could kiss ye–”
“Don’t.” Ghost’s voice is dry though his heart is thumping heavier than it ever has behind enemy lines. “Saw the amount of garlic ya put on your pasta earlier.”
“Feck off.” Soap is laughing, bare feet tapping in excitement on the sticky floor. Ghost gently unclasps Johnny’s hands from his shirt collar.
“Pick you up in an hour. Don’t be late.”
A wrinkle appears between Soap’s brows again. His mouth opens to ask a stupid question, but Ghost has anticipated this. For someone as smart as he is, his sergeant can be really fucking thick.
“We’re goin’ to mine. No way am I driving back all the way to base after a concert. Got a place in town anyways, be good to make use of it for the rent I’m payin’.”
The wrinkle changes shape, grows deeper and more confused, but Ghost’s eyes are solely focused on the way Johnny is licking his lips, on the way his eyes beam. They do not stray lower. They don’t. He does not think about what this will mean. Johnny does not ask about sleeping arrangements. He says,
“Fine.”
And his heart does not jump out of his chest when Johnny smiles in response, even if it feels like it.
“Garage in an hour. Better hurry, Sergeant.”
He turns on his heel before he can do something stupid, and doesn’t think about Soap’s dopey smile while he packs. Not at all.
__________________
The car ride passes in comfortable silence. Soap falls asleep nearly as soon as the motor starts. Ghost turns the radio down to let him sleep and drives. It's not far, barely twenty minutes, but God knows they can always use all the rest they can get.
The town looks like any other shitty little town dating back some centuries. Thick oak in the town square, big fuckin church in the middle of it all, nothing special. Ghost doesn't even know why the fuck any band would stop here, but from what Soap says, there's a small scene. Not like Ghost would know. even though he is the one who lives here.
The flat is tiny, and the walls have just barely not started to mould yet. But it's next to the river, and it makes Ghost feel less like he is suffocating, as he is prone to in tight spaces. Not that he spends much time here in any case, two weeks a year if that, and only because Price makes him leave base sometimes. Orders him to. "You're still just a man, Simon. It'll be good for you." Ususally, that's when he goes hunting. Sometimes he can't, worst when he's injured. Sitting around, waiting to heal. Even worse when Johnny's not, out on missions, when Ghost isn't even there to keep him safe. God knows the cheeky fuck doesn't need it, but it makes Ghost's insides cramp up.
So his flat is here to come home to, though it has never been home — barest of bones, like carrion long since gnawed on and cleaned by scavengers: A bedroom even smaller than his room on base, open kitchenette integrated into the living space, bathroom with barely enough room to turn around in. Ghost can touch his toes to the opposite wall when when he's sitting on the toilet.
He minds none of it. It's his, and the fact that his name is jotted down and signed on a lease somewhere feels like a tether sometimes. He knows it'd be easy to make that go away if things really went south, but for now he is content to tell himself that this is the small safety net he never had before.
"No' one fer decoratin', are ye, LT?" Johnny is smiling, Ghost can tell even with his back turned to him.
"Were you expecting me to be?" He turns around to look down at Soap's smiling face. Nods toward the coat rack. "Don't drip on my fuckin' floors, Sergeant. Damp enough in here as is. Fucking riverside buildings."
In truth, he loves the river. Loves sleeping with his window open so he hears the constant stream of water reminding him he is not buried in the ground. Loves the light reflecting off it in the mornings, fag and tea for breakfast while he stares out the window and tries to gauge whether it's rained up north depending on the water level.
"Nah, just thought— ye ken, still waters an' all that shite. Reckoned maybe ye had a lass stuffed away here somewhere doin' the decoratin' for ye."
Ghost grins. Doesn't pay mind to how it stings that Soap would think that. That he doesn't know.
"Plenty of skeletons stuffed away in my closet, Johnny. None of them doing any decorating so far though, I'm afraid." He thinks for a second. Doesn't look at Soap's face when he adds, "No bird stashed away here… or anywhere, Sergeant. Got no taste for women."
Soap drops his dufflebag next to the couch, cheeks flushed when he sizes Ghost up.
"My my, LT. Wouldnae have—" He cuts off, and his bravado can't quite hide the nervous quiver in his voice, and Ghost smiles quietly as he turns away to busy himself looking through the kitchen shelves he knows full well are all empty.
"Not have taken me for a fairy? Well…" He steps to the fridge to rifle through is condiments. Excuses, excuses. "You wanna order in or cook? Got plenty of time."
Soap is measuring the length of Ghost's living room by the size of his feet. Stops in front of the bookshelf, the one decoration Ghost has allowed himself. Runs his fingers across the unbroken backs of the books.
"These just here fer decoration then, aye? Tryin' to impress someone with yer readin' list?"
Ghost tells himself it's not jealousy in Johnny's voice. Just wishful thinking. Turns around, leans against the counter as he watches Soap take in his space. However little there is to take in. Watches him and watches him, gluts himself on the curve of his spine and the odd delicateness of his scarred, too-short fingers, and how the back of his mohawk is so long now it's almost between his shoulder blades. Not regulation at all. Terrible, really. Ghost wants to bury his fingers in it and pull.
"No. I just take care of the things I own, Johnny." He regards him with hawk eyes as a blush creeps up the back of Soap's neck. Wants to dig his teeth into the soft skin, leave bruises and bites and kisses there, splattered alongside the freckles.
"Do ye now." Soap mumbles, barely audible. But Ghost hears him. Johnny measures his footsteps back towards Ghost and the kitchen, equally as carefully as he did the first time round, looking only down. Comes to a stop so close that the tips of his boots nearly touch Ghost's, and when he finally raises his eyes to look at him, his cheeks are pink and he is breathing heavy, sucking in air greedily. Ghost pushes down the urge to cradle his jaw, to tilt his chin up and press his cracked lips to Johnny's soft ones.
"Yes, Sergeant, I do. Broken enough spines in my lifetime, can't stand it when people do that to their books." He turns abruptly, stalks to his fridge to get the five takeout menus held to it by a fridge magnet. A fridge magnet that Johnny gave him, he remembers suddenly. Back after a mission in Italy, the cheesiest fucking thing and ugly as sin: a bowl of Bolognese and the Italian flag and in thick, badly painted lettering saying 'Bella Italia'. Ghost loves it dearly, and he would never admit it.
Soap stares at him with huge eyes when he extends the takeout menus.
"What's tha'?"
"Asked you a question before, Sergeant. Takeout or cooking?"
Soap blinks in response, raises his hand as if to take the menus, then drops it again.
"Actually— cook. If ye don't mind. Get enough of the greasy shit on base, and I'll be honest, might need tae stop by a chippy after the concert as well. Cooking's good."
Ghost grins. Pins the menus back to the fridge.
"You're only saying that because it won't be you doing the cooking and you know it. Burned one too many meals, haven't you, Johnny?"
"Have no'!" Soap sounds incredibly offended, arms crossed in front of his chest, and Ghost is decidedly not staring at the way he is squishing his pecs together. He's not. "Tha' happened one time."
Ghost tilts his head.
"Seem to remember at least… six different occasions where that happened, me."
The corner of Johnny's mouth twitches.
"Och, whatever. I get distracted, ye ken! 's not like when we're on a mission."
"I know." Like he has to soothe him, Ghost's voice is smooth and gentle. Shouldn't be, but is. "I know, Johnny."
Soap squeezes past him, so unnecessarily close that Ghost can smell his shampoo, and cold cigarette smoke. He tries not to inhale like a starving man over a five course meal. Fails. Shrugs it off and watches Johnny pace around the three square metres that make up the kitchen area, looking through all the cupboards and shelves again like Ghost didn't just do that himself. It's weird, having Johnny in his space. It's nice. But strange, to watch him look around like he is supposed to be here. Like this is also his.
"Ye've fuckall tae cook, though."
That makes laughter bubble up in Ghost's chest, full and bright, like he almost never laughs. Like he never used to before he knew Johnny.
"We can get groceries, sw— Sergeant. Shop's a ten minute walk, think all your hard cardio will pay off?"
They bicker the whole way to the grocery store and back, the cashier a moody teenager with some obscure band shirt who brightens up considerably after Johnny recognises the band name and starts chatting about them. Ghost watches him with so much fondness in his heart that he feels heavy with it, impossible to move without Johnny dragging him along, like only his pull is stronger than gravity.
When they get home, Ghost orders Johnny off for chopping duty while he washes the rice. They decided on curry — easy, filling, excellent leftovers. Ghost helps dicing and mincing, puts on the pots, and tries not to get lost in the domesticity of it all. Tries not to think about what it would be like to do this more often. All the time. To get to watch Soap's face brighten, to listen to him tell a story while he pours oil into a pan. Tries not to daydream about what it might be like if Johnny stepped up behind him, wrapped his strong arms around Simon's body and held him, and he definitely doesn't dream about pushing Soap up against the counter.
It would be so easy, to invade his space. Soap might even welcome it for a moment, so tactile, so touch-starved. It would be easy to pull off his mask and slot his lips against Soap's, easier push his tongue inside his mouth and see what he tastes like, to find out what he sounds like when he is moaning and begging. Would be the easiest thing Ghost has ever done to sink to his knees and press his face into Johnny's crotch, inhale him deep until he is dizzy with it, mouth along the hard line of his cock, lick at him over the fabric until his mouth is dry and he can't breathe. All Ghost wants is to see Johnny happy.
"—and then she turns tae me and goes: "Bit rude, wasn't he?" Like aye lady, ye nearly fuckin' died, but tha' sure is the thing tae focus on here, massive take away from tha' interaction." Soap is grinning at him expectantly, popping a piece of raw carrot into his mouth. Ghost shakes his head, chuckles quietly even though he missed most of that story. Carefully keeps his back towards Soap, angles his hips so he can't see how Ghost is tenting his cargos just from thinking about things he should not be thinking about at all. Fuckin' hell.
There's the shuffle of fabric behind him, and Soap appears by his side, peering into the pan.
"Ye almost done? I'm starvin', me."
He leans into Ghost's side, plush chest pressed up against Ghost's arm. Dips his finger into the golden curry like it isn't fucking bubbling in the pan. Curses when it burns him, but licks it clean with a grin anyways, and Ghost isn't staring, isn't thinking about Johnny's mouth at all, isn't breathing hard — isn't breathing at all — and everything is fine, it's fine, just Johnny, only Johnny, all Johnny—
"Could use a bit more cumin, I reckon," Soap announces as he dips his finger into the sauce again like it did not just scald him mere seconds ago, "…maybe some salt as well. Though doc's always on me about layin' off the salt. Wha' can I say though, I like it. Everythin' tastes better salted proper, right, LT?"
It's not even an innuendo. Soap is blinking up at him with innocent baby blues, tongue darting out to clean his finger, sucking it into his mouth, blinking slowly. Ghost is losing his fucking mind. Just like he does when Johnny does this in meetings, always something between his teeth, keeping that mouth busy, chewing on pens, licking his fingers clean after meals. Catching Ghost staring, and never saying anything about it.
Like now.
"Mhm… aye. Definitely cumin. Let ye decide about the salt though, I ken yer tryin' tae get me tae be good. On me more than the doctors, ye are. More cardio, less salt… Christ, LT. 's like yer tryin' tae make me intae a better man."
Ghost swallows the lump in his throat and presses his hips into the counter more ardently, as if that might keep his cock from twitching instead of making him harder.
"Maybe I am. Told ya back in Las Almas that you want to try and be better than me, didn't I? Challenging fuckin' task, that is."
Soap grins, but pushes away to slump onto the sofa, all spread thighs and easy rapport. Ghost wants to dig his fingers into those thighs until they're covered in bruises, until it hurts. He stirs the curry.
"Always so humble, Sir. 's what I lo- what I like about ye the most, I think."
Ghost's mouth twitches. He never smiles as much as he does when he is spending time with Johnny. It made him uncomortable in the beginning, how effortlessly his Sergeant could put him at ease. Sometimes it still does. Mostly though, Ghost likes the familiarity of it. Likes how much it makes him feel like a real person.
"Fine, cumin and salt. Sure got opinions for someone who didn't help the process much, don'tcha, Sergeant?"
Soap scoffs indignantly, but gets up to rifle through Ghost's cabinets and drawers for plates and cutlery. Doesn't even need to be ordered. Good lad.
"Ye wannae spoon, LT?"
Ghost almost chokes on the trial bite he just put into his mouth. Focuses on his composure just in time, though his cock isn't on board with that, weeping and pressing insistently against his hip where he leans against the counter. He stares at Soap.
"Sure. Prefer to be the big spoon though, hope you won't take offence," he says dryly.
Soap's brow wrinkles, another blush creeping up his neck. God, but it drives Ghost insane, how easy it is to get him all flushed, to get his lips to part just so, make him look like he wants it so bad he is ready to beg for it. He closes his eyes.
"LT." The voice is closer to him than it should be. Ghost pries his eyes open, unwillingly, not certain whether he can keep denying himself much longer. Soap has sidled up next to him, fork, spoon, and knife in hand and offering them up to him like a morning gift of silver.
"I said, d'ye want a spoon?"
Ghost huffs in relief. Scolds himself for being so silly, so fucking forlorn in his longing. He needs to get his damn act together, is what he needs. Not Johnny on his knees, not himself either, not grinding himself into the counter like he has definitely not been doing. None of that. He needs… a spoon.
"Yes." Then, after a moment, he adds, "Please."
Soap blinks up at him, then steps back, nodding contentedly.
"Ye think it's ready? Could eat a whole elephant right now, fuck me."
Ghost bites his lip so hard he tastes blood.
"You know what they say about eating an elephant, right, Johnny?" He grins at Soap's confused, wrinkly nose. "One bite at a time."
Soap snorts, turns away to set the table in front of the sofa.
"No' even a proper joke, that. Wise words to live by though, I reckon. Always good to take big things slow."
Ghost can't respond to that. His cock does anyways. He just puts the rice in the pan and stirs vigorously. Sprinkles in more salt as requested, and some cumin. Touch of turmeric for good measure, and because he definitely can't move towards Soap yet, not while he's looking at him. Fuck's sake. Usually Ghost is the one with a staring problem.
Finally, Johnny settles into the cushions, drumming his hands on his thighs, humming to himself. Not asking if he can help, knowing Ghost would push him away, though maybe not for the reasons he assumes.
Ghost taste-tests, then nods to himself. Turned out pretty good.
He turns away under the pretence of looking for napkins. Tucks his cock into his waistband as stealthily as he can manage, is glad he doesn't moan when he feels the warmth of his fingers on his pulsing length. Fuck, he might need to shower before they leave. He can't go like this.
He pulls his shirt down and, for good measure, places the pot strategically in front of his crotch when he carries it over to the sidetable and plops it down next to the plates. It's fine. He'll calm down in time.
The warmth of Johnny's thigh radiates like he is a furnace, and their knees knock together. Ghost's cock pulses wetly.
"Put a match on for eating?" he asks, and ignores the way Soap is looking at him. He knows he's not the most fun to hang out with for prolonged periods of time, even if it's easier with Johnny than with anyone else. But he's all out of words, and tonight will be a lot in any case. Loud noises, tight spaces and loads of people. His least favourite things all nice and piled up. But also Johnny, radiant and happy. His most favourite thing in the world.
It's worth it.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘💀🧼⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
⮞ Chapter 2
tagging my usual suspects for now, lmk if u wanna be added to the taglist for this fic. bonus points if u figure out what the artist of each chapter title is lol
jacobvanloon
izzy806
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
prguitarman
titsay
stormborns
