Chapter Text
It’s always when Soap’s drunk that he introduces Ghost to a new kink. As dirty and depraved as the pair of them are when they get together, Soap still gets all shy when he wants to ask Ghost for something new - alcohol cures him of any and all nervousness and so there they sit, cramped into a tiny booth in a shitty dive bar in Mexico where Soap’s invested in an even shittier little apartment, stuck in between tipsy and drunk.
Soap’s more sober than Ghost - always is. The Scot holds his liquor much better than Simon does, which infuriates him to no end (particularly when Ghost’s head is hazy and his eyelids are drooping and he feels warm and wet in between his thighs even after two whiskeys, and Soap, who’s practically drank his body weight, is only slightly buzzed). Soap’s eyes are on Ghost, staring shamelessly at the curve of his pretty lips as he lifts up his balaclava to knock back the rest of his drink; ice clinks against the rim of the glass as Ghost sets it down, and Soap arches a brow.
“Another, sir?” he asks and the way ‘sir’ lolls off his tongue is riddled with mockery. Ghost bares his teeth and Soap laughs, the edge of it tinged with mania. His head is thrown back against the edge of the booth seat and his neck down to his sharp collarbones form one long line of tanned flesh that Ghost is desperate to bite. He licks his lips, shoving his balaclava back down to his chin when Soap’s gaze drops immediately to his mouth.
“Tease,” Soap mutters and now it’s Ghost’s turn to laugh. He doesn’t laugh necessarily, not really, but he feels his lips quirk up unbidden and he knows his eyes crinkle when he smiles and Soap knows it too. His partner gives him a gentle look and Ghost rolls his eyes in response.
“Well, if you’re paying, I’ll take a 1942,” Ghost mutters, tracing a pattern in the condensation of his glass. He realises abruptly that it’s going to end up a heart and flushes terribly under the mask, wiping it away with the backs of his fingers.
“Tequila? You like the taste of dog piss then?” Soap asks and Ghost scowls. He doesn’t actually want the drink, but he likes the idea of Soap spending that much money on him just for him to refuse to drink it. Something hot flashes in his gut at the image in his head of Soap plying him with expensive gifts and making him repay him on his knees; he locks the idea deep away in his brain despite how hot and tight his throat suddenly feels at the idea of Soap’s cock shoved down it.
“Don Julio is the exception,” he replies. “Though you wouldn’t know good liquor if it hit you in the face.”
“You think so, darlin’?” Soap chuckles, slipping his hand from the back of the booth, where he’s been cradling the back of Ghost’s head and stroking calloused fingers over the shell of his ear just to see him shiver, to his thigh. Ghost jumps at the sudden contact, and then hits Soap sharply in the bicep when the other man chuckles. “You’re just like a little virgin when you get tipsy, you know that? Bet I could get you to cry just by pinching these pretty thighs,” Soap hisses, sliding his hand further up so that his fingers are ever so slightly brushing against the lips of Ghost’s distressingly empty cunt.
“We’re in public ,” Ghost hisses, but he knows no one is watching, that nobody can tell what’s going on between two off-duty soldiers beneath the table. There’s a shriek of laughter from a bachelorette party to the left of them and the pounding of some old pop song takes all attention away from them and instead to the dancefloor. “Someone could see,” he says anyways, but it does nothing to deter Soap.
“You don’t want people to see you, baby? Don’t want me to show off that pretty pussy to everyone, huh?” Johnny’s fingers start inching further up the fabric of Ghost’s trousers, away from his inner thighs but closer to his waistband. He’s so red that his cheeks feel like they’re on fire and even though Soap can’t technically see but he’s sure he can tell anyways. “Such a big, strong boy, I’m sure you could take everyone here and still whine for more.”
“Keep talking and I’ll slit your fucking throat,” Ghost snarls, but despite all his complaints, his core clenches hard at his partner’s words. Embarrassingly, he thinks he feels a huge glob of wetness leak from his hole and he twitches, swallowing hard. Soap’s eyes go bright and focused, any hint of drunkenness completely vanishing when Ghost’s brain is still fuzzy and slow and unbearably turned on from the alcohol.
“Wet, ain’t ya?” Soap purrs and shuffles closer, gently finding the edge of Ghost’s balaclava and rolling it up just enough to show his pert, pink lips. He feels himself panting a little and abruptly snaps his mouth closed, which makes Soap smiles, genuine and sweet. Ghost huffs a little laugh, feeling young and green and so, so in love. They’re pushing both of their boundaries just a little, but Simon likes it . He likes when Soap pushes him, likes that thrill of fear at the idea of being caught when Johnny’s that bit too wanton in public, or if one of the men from the rest of the task force glances knowingly at the poorly concealed marks up and down Soap’s neck whenever they come back from a long leave (they never have the courage to look at Ghost like that, though).
“Gonna let me kiss that lovely, little mouth, darling?” Soap asks, keeping his thumb pressed against Ghost’s cheek, below his rolled up mask so that it won’t fall down. Ghost glances down at Soap’s lips, feeling a whine creep up his throat at the idea of not kissing him right now, even though they are in public and as his superior officer, Ghost should really know better. But he doesn’t, because he’s a fool and he’s in love and he wants and wants and wants and-
“I’ll kill you if you don’t,” Ghost snaps and before Soap can laugh or reply or react, he’s shoving into his personal space and smashing their lips together. It’s too rough and their noses press together awkwardly, but Ghost doesn’t care because he can taste whiskey on Soap’s lips and he wants, desperately , to be the only chaser Soap’ll ever need. Soap tries to pull away far too soon, leaning backwards against the bar booth and Ghost growls, low and hungry, and rushes after him, hips shifting so he’s half sitting on Soap, half kneeling over him.
“We’re in public,” Soap says against his mouth, mimicking his protests from before and Ghost hums in agreement, high pitched and docile, like a tamed cat. Soap’s hands trail up his sides, petting him like a scared animal and Ghost knows he’s shaking and whining but he can’t really feel anything but Soap. “Come on, honey, take a deep breath, there’s a lad,” Johnny soothes and it just makes Ghost shiver more, hands fisting in Soap’s shirt, keeping him close, keeping him right where he wants.
“Take me home, Johnny, I want to go home,” he says, plaintive and hoarse. The alcohol’s gone to his head, and he can’t quite see straight, which he isn’t sure is because of the drink or the arousal. He can tell from the way he’s kneeling that he’s soaked through his boxers, knows when Soap finally peels his underwear off that he’ll whine like a dog at the mess between his thighs, because it’s what he does every time.
“I want t’ finish me drink,” Johnny says, quirking his lips at the corners. His hand is still on Ghost’s arse and he squeezes, rough, uncaring of any bruises he might leave because he’d be the only person to see them anyways, when Ghost makes an irritated, disagreeing noise. “I’ve got something at home that we needta talk about, anyways. Something I want to try.” Ghost’s rumbles of malcontent stop abruptly and Johnny’s smirk widens. “Be a good boy and sit back down. Then, maybe I’ll tell ya.”
Ghost stares at him for a moment, eyes narrowed; and then, because he is a good boy, he shoves himself out of Soap’s lap, yanking his balaclava back down his chin and over his jaw, and sitting back against the seats, aiming for casual and likely missing by a mile. Johnny still looks aggravatingly unaffected, because he’s so much better at hiding his emotions than Ghost ever has been (there’s more than one reason for the mask), and it makes something angry and feral rise up inside him, an animal chomping at the bit. He reaches over, as Johnny’s picked his glass back up, grabs his other hand and pulls it insistently between his legs, rutting his hips up for just a moment so he can get Johnny’s fingers exactly where he wants them.
Johnny chokes on his drink - Simon, madly in love as he is, finds it ridiculously attractive. It’s not even that Johnny is touching him, or at least, not his bare flesh. His long, thick fingers, calloused from the triggers of hundreds of different guns, are over top of his jeans, but they’ve been slid right to where Simon’s cunt is pressing up against the denim - the wet denim. “Baby,” Soap says, voice gravelly and rough. It’s the only word he manages to say for a while, but just because he’s silent, doesn’t mean he’s still . It’s a few moments of Soap rubbing, transfixed, at the wet patch Simon has leaked through to his jeans, a look of disbelieving awe plastered across his pretty face, before he presses down, hard , hard enough that Ghost can really feel it - he chokes too.
“Awfy gallus, gettin’ is to touch ye like that, Si,” Johnny says, accent thick with arousal. Ghost glances at the rest of the bar, a little paranoid all of a sudden at their display, but there’s still nobody looking at them, still nobody who cares about the way Johnny is tracing his fingers up and down and up and down the length of Simon’s clothed sex. “And ‘ave ‘ardly even touched ya, sweet thing,” he mocks, using his other hand to yank Simon’s face by the jaw, so his full attention is back on him. “What’s got you so wet, hmm?”
“Nothing,” he snaps, hands flying beneath the table to white-knuckle grip the chair when Johnny’s hand goes straight to his button. “Certainly not you ,” he says and Johnny laughs, low and mocking.
“No?” he croons and Ghost wants to fuck him so badly that he’d take him in the middle of this bar with everybody watching. Johnny eases the button of his jeans loose, traces the zipper with the tips of his fingers and pushing, ever so gently, so that it starts to fall down, teeth unlocking and revealing the soft, black cotton of Ghost’s underwear. “Lift up your mask,” he murmurs and Ghost whines lowly, shifting in his seat. Johnny’s free hand wraps around his knee, pulls it into his own lap so Simon’s spread out again, pinned down and flayed alive under the weight of Johnny’s gaze.
Ghost does as he’s told, trembling fingers finding the edge of his mask and tucking it up, rolling it over his chin and then further, back over his nose, at Johnny’s nod. His mouth is dry. He wants Johnny to spit in it.
“You know that I know you’re a man,” Johnny says and Simon falters for a moment, confused. He trusts that Johnny’s not about to say anything…offensive, necessarily, but his arousal still fades, just a little. He hums in agreement and Johnny, who knows him better than anybody ever has, can clearly tell - Simon assumes that’s why he yanks him closer, mouth just shy of the shell of his ear, breath fanning out across the delicate skin when he says, “so you know when I ask you to put on a pretty dress and bend over for me, it’s not for any other reason than me being a filthy pervert, right?”
Ghost shudders, hard, violent - he’s not sure how Soap’s managed to pry open his skull and fish out his deepest, darkest fantasy, but he has . “Christ,” he swears, leaning over and burying his face in Soap’s throat. His face is burning , bright red and aflame; he feels so humiliated, even more so when Soap laughs at him, pats him gently on the back as he shakes and whines and falls apart just at the thought. Soap’s still fondling him beneath the table and he uses the opportunity that Ghost’s presented, the ability for the other man to completely hide his response, to boldly slip his fingers beneath Simon’s underwear.
Ghost half-sobs, half-moans at the stimulation, hips rucking up helplessly against Soap’s fingertips as they brush, just ever-so against his clit. There’s two fingers on either side, spreading his labia open just enough that Johnny can circle his middle finger against that spot with the barest of pressures. Johnny soothes him with a low sound, other hand curling around the back of Simon’s neck and pressing him further into his neck - Ghost whines and ignores any rational thought and bites .
“Yer divvnae have to mark me up, honey,” Johnny says, managing to get his hand beneath the balaclava without removing it entirely to grab a fistful of Simon’s curls and use it as leverage to yank him away. He doesn’t even sound affected and when Simon’s vision clears enough that he can see straight, he notes that there’s only barely the imprint of teeth against his throat; the desperate, primal urge to bite again, to bite harder , strikes a chord inside of him and he does sob this time, mourning the loss. “Everyone here knows I’m yours, sweet thing,” Johnny assures him and it settles Simon just enough that he doesn’t protest when Johnny’s other hand, that hadn’t paused once, slips out of his underwear.
“Open up fer me,” Soap says, eyes like fire. He’s watching Ghost so intently that he feels like a test subject, some sort of lab specimen that Soap’s manhandling however he so chooses. He swallows and opens his mouth and the emptiness is immediately invaded by three of Soap’s fingers all at once - the sides of his mouth ache suddenly and he wants to bite, but he knows if he does, having already been warned not to, that Soap will slap him, regardless of where they are. The taste registers after a moment and Simon is hit with a dizzying surge of arousal as he tastes himself on Soap’s fingers.
“Johnny,” he snaps and Johnny laughs, nods for him to continue. “Johnny, take me
home
.”