2 years. 2 years of wearing the Lieutenant down, bringing him tea every morning and sparring every evening and finally, finally getting past the rows of solid brick walls he’d built up around himself, just for this moment.
Soap finally has Ghost under him, shirtless. His lips are kiss-swollen, his breath comes hot and heavy, and all Soap can do is stare gormlessly.
Because Ghost has stretch marks.
Silvery lines snaking along the edge of his huge pecs, where the muscle had grown too fast for his skin to keep up.
Moreso than just redirecting all of Soap’s blood flow straight down to his dick, they’re proof. Proof of every growth spurt that put him half a foot above his mates. Proof of years spent hauling kit, weapons, weights, people. Proof of survival. His body couldn’t keep up with what was being demanded of it, and it left a record right here under Soap’s hands.
“…You gonna stare all night, Sergeant? Or was there a plan?” Ghost says dryly, though with his mask pushed above his nose like that Soap can see him smirking. Cocky bastard.
“Can I touch ‘em?”
Ghost’s brow raises.
“The stretch marks.”
“I knew which bit you were on about.” He shrugs one broad shoulder, looking decently bemused. “Go on, then.”
Soap traces one of the faint lines with his thumb, feeling the slight ridge of raised skin give under his fingers. He follows it absentmindedly until it disappears into the hollow of Ghost’s underarm. There’s more than he realised on first glance - thin pale stripes along his lats, and several more curving over the swell of his biceps.
“Johnny,” Ghost snaps eventually, but there’s absolutely no heat in it, never is. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re practically droolin’. Get a move on.”
Soap leans forward, presses his lips to the base of Ghost’s neck, and gets a move on.
