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It starts innocent enough.
Ghost notices a lot of things about Soap. It’s hard not to when the sergeant is as open as one could ever get, wearing his heart on his goddamn sleeve. He’s obnoxious, a tad too loud, and painstakingly obvious about whatever’s on his mind. Not to mention self-assured to the point where every newly met person must think he’s too smug for his own good. That’s what Ghost pointed him out to be on their first mission together, too.
If he didn’t know any better not to judge a book by its cover, he’d say Soap was a bit of a muppet.
Fortunately for him (or maybe not, he hasn’t exactly decided yet) he is anything but that, and has had quite the number of occasions to prove it. Successfully, given his brilliant performance in Las Almas and Chicago. He didn’t disappoint regardless of how difficult the situation turned out to be. Or how badly injured and high on stimulants he was the entire time. Ghost would never admit it—not him, not the dead killing machine the military expects him to be—but Simon thinks Soap deserves to be the way he is: borderline cocky, that is, which is stupidly attractive for absolutely no reason whatsoever.
Soap’s infuriatingly confident personality is not the only thing he notices, no. He notices the lingering touches, the stares full of intent or whatnot Ghost doesn’t quite comprehend yet. The ridiculous innuendos spoken in his thick accent through comms, just shy of becoming more than simple olive branches held out for Ghost to take up.
And take up he does, when he shoves Soap against the wall of his own barracks room and kisses him with a bite so mean the Scot complains about his busted lips for the next three days.
Despite them resolving the, no shit, unresolved-for-weeks romantic tension, the gawking and incessant caresses never stopped. In fact, all they have gotten is even worse, and Ghost isn’t sure whether he should be more elated or frustrated about it.
“Johnny,” Ghost mutters in warning, albeit still gently, the softest he’ll ever get, eyeing their sleeping teammates that are sitting just across from them on the plane. They’re out, sure, but a bit of caution never hurt anybody. He shifts in his seat, spreading his legs to the sides to hide Soap’s fingers—currently playing with his own, all mindless stroking and tickling. Ghost’s leather glove lies in his lap, forgotten, thanks to a certain someone. “We’re landing in fifteen.”
Soap hums absentmindedly, seemingly unbothered by it, and proceeds to tug Ghost’s palm in between his thighs, still tracing the scarred knuckles with the calloused pads of his fingers. The warm meat of Soap’s leg under his hand feels like a blessing from a god he never believed in, and Ghost can hardly refrain himself from squeezing and watching Soap’s brows twitch in fleeting pleasure.
“Ah love yer hands, Lt,” Soap slurs, eyes closing shut. His head lolls to the side and onto Ghost’s shoulder. The lieutenant fights the tremor that threatens to swallow his frame at the forced proximity, and only grips Soap’s thigh tighter, a sign to drop it when they’re not alone. Soap, frankly, doesn’t care. He makes himself comfortable, rubbing his legs together and nuzzling further into Ghost’s neck. Fucking Jesus. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em the whole day, eve’ since ye were doin’ yer gun maintenance.”
Ghost clanks his jaws together in a snug fit, stubbornly staring ahead. He knows better than to look at the sweet temptation Soap is when he’s all touchy and sweaty and still very much high on adrenaline from the completed mission.
“I’ve noticed,” he barks, and he means it.
Finding the sergeant’s gaze directed to his palms has always been an often occurrence, and it only grows in frequency whenever he takes off his gloves around him. Ghost isn’t stupid, he’s always known Soap likes his hands, but nothing could prepare him for the sluttiest show of sucking on his fingers Soap had in store for him the first time they fucked. It’s been no secret how stupidly obsessed he is with them ever since.
Soap chuckles, amused, the deep sound managing to penetrate the frigid walls Ghost has put so dutifully around his heart. It never fails to do so. Ghost continues, melting to the core when the man clings closer to him, “you were distracted the whole time out ‘ere, lad.”
“That so?” Soap continues his delirious teasing, apparently ignorant of the effect he has on his superior. Or maybe not entirely, because he drags Ghost’s broad palm up, up, until it brushes against the heat between his legs. “Ah wis much focused, Lt. On somethin’ else, but regardless.”
Ghost can almost hear the crack in his bones with how hard he grits his teeth. Soap has the audacity to bring his hips down in his seat, then grind a little into the meat of Ghost’s wrist. It takes a hot second for the lieutenant to recover from his stupefied rigidness and dislodge his palm from Soap’s death lock. Those thighs could take lives.
Before Soap can do anything about it, the pilot announces they’re landing soon and the dozing part of their team jerks awake momentarily. Ghost almost wants to pat himself on the back for his excellent timing.
Soap doesn’t, if the heated stare Ghost can feel on himself is anything to go by. It keeps him on the very edge of snapping, feeling quite like the sizzling fuze of a bomb—ironically, Soap is the one that could also disable it. Alas, the demolitions expert is a bit of a pyromaniac.
The briefing he and his sergeant are called to upon arriving at the base isn’t long, but Ghost swears he’s never felt the minutes go by as slowly as they do now. Price inquires about any vague clues that might be proven useful later, then assesses the goal for their next mission, talking about the details and possible outcomes. Ghost is hardly listening, distracted. The captain is just doing his job, he knows that, however all he can bring his undivided attention to is Soap’s warm hand, squeezing onto his own under the table they’re both sitting at. It’s lazily mapping out the lines of his ink etched into pale skin as if to irk him, get him frothing with hot anger. It’s working—the feather-like sensation drives Ghost further up the wall of frenzy he’s been cornered by since their goddamn flight.
“Negative, capt’n, there were no signs of civilians,” Ghost answers begrudgingly, trying his hardest to ignore the satisfaction radiating off Soap at Ghost’s stiff form. He thinks he’s going insane. “We searched through the whole compound thoroughly.”
Price falls silent, eyes leaving the lieutenant to browse through the report on his laptop. It’s then that everything goes to hell—Soap uses the temporary lack of eyes on them to his advantage and yanks at Ghost’s unsuspecting arm. A nasty curse wants to follow his loud exhale; it does nothing to stop Soap from swiftly popping the button of his cargo pants open to make room for Ghost’s wide wrist. Alarmed, he glares in heated panic at the Scot, only to find a charming grin and a challenge in his blue gaze. Soap forces his arm down to his crotch, unmindful of his quiet disapproval, and Ghost can barely stifle his groan when he finds no underwear. It’s quite the match to Soap’s scorching enthusiasm, fuck’s sake.
The pads of his thick digits willingly brush against Soap’s abdomen, through the trimmed hair, and reach the man’s swollen clit before he can even spur him to do so. Honestly, the crazed look Soap levels him with is worth every risk of a dishonorable discharge and more. Ghost flicks his trigger finger, getting a spasm of muscles in reward, a sweet shudder of Soap’s hips and his own name tumbling out of the sergeant’s mouth via a muted gasp.
“Fuck,” Ghost whispers. Price peers back to him, and he knows he wasn’t as discreet with it as he hoped to be. God fucking help him and Soap, because the captain glances at the sergeant next, at the faraway look Soap holds in his eyes whenever Ghost gets his fingers on his perfect cunt.
“You alright, boys?” Price asks with a frown settling between his brows. Of course the universe decides to punish him for his leniency with Soap.
“We’re alright,” Soap cuts off, too fast and with too much conviction to sound credible. Despite that, he rocks his hips onto Ghost’s fingers in slow, lazy circles—all but playing with fire. Ghost wants to murder him, preferably with his rock-hard dick. “Jist a wee tired. Bit of an adrenaline crash, aye?”
Price levels him with a calculating stare, probably taking note of the flush spread across his cheeks in rosy rivulets, of the relaxed, lewd expression he sports on his face. So does Ghost, feeling his cock swell at the sight.
“Dismissed, the both of you. Get some rest, we’ll finish this up tomorrow morning. Six hundred sharp in my office,” the captain finally speaks, with Soap’s unhappy whine stalking behind his words. Ghost taps two fingers against his clit, mean, and watches Price glare at Soap, who shifts in his seat, sensitive and needy and mewling for reasons unbeknownst to the other man. “I do not want to hear any excuses.”
He does not, because Ghost immediately stands up and urges Soap to follow him with a hand on his nape, the very same one he’s had down his pants for the past ten minutes. The wet reminder of pleasure is enough of an encouragement for Soap, judging by the speed he scrambles to his feet. Price looks at them funny one last time before the door to the room closes with a soft click.
“Bed,” is all that leaves Ghost’s mouth in a growl once they’re back to his room, now locked and finally keeping them away from stray eyes. Soap perks up with a playful grin, moving to the mentioned spot; he’s stopped by a palm gripping around his throat, pressing his entire body back into Ghost’s wide chest. “None of that fucking cheek, you little cunt. Be good for me.”
“I’m always good to ye,” Soap breathes against the headlock, the smile obviously far from dropping. His ass pushes back into Ghost’s hips, grinding against his dick in a dirty fashion. “See how good yer fat cock considers me?”
“Don’t push it, love,” Ghost replies, all bark and bite, with Soap gasping under the increasing pressure on his pulse. “Get that ass on the bed and undress. Quietly.”
There’s no audible reply, but Ghost does not need one. He’s acquainted with Soap’s bratty antics well enough to know when he’s going to obey—or not, for that matter. Right now, the prospect of getting Ghost’s fingers on him is too vibrant in his brain, too much of a sharp nudge at his arousal to ignore the command. Ghost, not even bothering to check whether he listened, turns around and enters the bathroom attached to his barracks room.
He turns on the faucet and scrubs his hands clean, with rhythmic strokes and entirely too much patience. If it’s to keep Soap on the very edge of his toes, sue him. He deserves less for all of the exhibitionist stunts he’s managed to pull today.
Finally, Ghost looks in the mirror, at the face of a reaper that keeps Simon at bay, dead to the world. He starts tugging his balaclava off, but then decides against it. No need to go easy on him, Johnny can work for it instead.
“Didnae know today was the bad cop day,” said man laughs when Ghost emerges from the bathroom and stands in the threshold of it, noting the mask still obscuring his face. He lays on the bed in all his naked glory, tan skin glistening with sweat and marred with scars. Johnny keeps talking, entertaining the thought with a raised eyebrow: “Was I bad, Lieutenant?”
Johnny’s legs part invitingly the moment he catches Ghost’s eyes boring into the meat of his thighs—it leaves him on display, all of his sweet cunt for Ghost to ogle, and fuck if he doesn’t want to bury his face in between those legs. Ghost squashes the need into the back of his mind, ignoring the interested twitch of his dick.
“Very,” Ghost quips, sounding almost bored, like he’s scolding a constantly misbehaving rookie. He doesn’t take his eyes off Johnny’s thighs, not missing the slight fidget of them as a result. It’s almost funny. “Aren’t you always bad, Sergeant?”
Johnny smiles, all teeth. It has Ghost leering at him even more hungrily, waiting for a chance to have a chunk of him. “No, sir.”
“I beg to differ, Johnny. I wasn’t the one bein’ a fuckin’ slag in front of everyone today,” Ghost mocks, eyes crinkling with something other than simple mirth. His face may not be visible, but Johnny reads him through the mask like no one else can—he sees the crude challenge in his stare, and answers with his own.
“Ye sure were the one tae keep his fingers on me though,” Johnny points out, ever the little shit, sliding a hand across his scarred torso. He thumbs at the indent of Ghost’s teeth right below his right nipple, then at his navel, descending down his abdomen to brush along his neat happy trail, and it’s like Ghost can’t look away, hypnotized. At least not until he reaches his cunt, shielding the view from him with the entirety of his palm. “Like a kid wit’ a cookie jar, ye just can’t help yerself, Simon. No better than all these cunt-drunk twats on the base, eh?”
Ghost’s eyes narrow despite his best attempts at keeping a poker face; Johnny smiles, cocky and satisfied and everything he doesn’t deserve to be tonight and, just to spite him, rubs two digits against his clit. Ghost can physically feel his patience snap into two.
“You want my fingers, Johnny?” he retorts, lunging at the bed, at Johnny, grabbing a fistful of his ankle in no time. Struggling follows: Johnny kicks him in the side, trying to break free of the tight grip, and that’s all he manages before he’s manhandled around and onto his hands and knees in quick succession. Ghost preens when his brute strength prevails once again, when the man underneath him grunts and fails to stay still, when his own palm smacks loudly against Johnny’s ass. “You’ll get my fuckin’ fingers, a’right. Just about all of them.”
It would take an actual idiot not to realize Johnny wants to call him yet another insult, preferably one out of his ridiculously massive Scottish arsenal of nonsense. Whatever’s currently on his tongue is cut off with a huff—Ghost forces his face into the mattress with a big hand, planting his whole body weight into the press. Johnny uselessly fights against it all the same, until he’s spanked again, and again, only because Ghost wants and can do so.
“Either this or nothin’, Johnny,” he threatens, enjoying the temporary obedience he knows won’t last for long. It’s a constant he’s grown used to, if not also one he revels in. Then again, he supposes it’s just Johnny, just his partner and his infuriating effect on him. “Take it or leave it, love. Like a good boy, for fuckin’ once.”
The fumbling stops altogether, and Ghost watches Johnny consider his words in silence. He’s not getting his cock, that’s for sure, and now he’s close to sacrificing any chance at getting off at all—Johnny seems to understand as much. It’s then that the fight leaves his body, that he sags bonelessly against the mattress; Johnny gives up, replacing the zealous defiance with something sweeter, softer.
Ghost almost forgets to breathe.
“My smart boy,” he croons into Johnny’s nape, both palms kneading at his slim waist, the small of his back and the dimples etched into it. He marvels at its thinness, so different compared to those broad shoulders, trying to remember every nook and cranny of his skin. If somebody told him he was obsessed with Johnny’s midriff, he would agree without hesitation. “Think you can behave, Johnny?” A tentative nod later, “grab the lube and turn on your back for me.”
No matter how much he loathes to do so, Ghost retrieves his hands from Johnny’s body to give him room. The man complies with the order eagerly, scrambling to reach the bedside cabinet. The task of staying away from the sun-kissed planes of his back and ass while he moves proves to be incredibly difficult for Ghost—the skin stretches taut around muscles, giving him a gorgeous view of Johnny’s trim waist and hips, of his lovingly thick thighs and his wet cunt in between.
“I’m sorry,” Johnny whispers after he passes Ghost the tube and lies back down on the bed. Ghost smiles under his mask, knowing what he’s apologizing for. It’s too bad he feels a little evil today, thanks to a certain someone wounding him up the entire time.
“Too late, sweetheart,” he mocks, voice saccharine and indulgent despite the threat in his words. He watches a quick flash of panic surface in Johnny’s eyes and feels his grin only grow in width. Ghost leans down to press a kiss against the other’s lips through the balaclava, slow and purposeful. Johnny tenses under it, licking at the material in response; it’s like a reward, the way he opens up for him, really.
“But—” he starts again, only to cut himself off with a sharp inhale when thick fingers dance on his inner thighs, skirting dangerously close to his crotch. Close, but not close enough, only teasing while Johnny grows more desperate. “Simon, I’ll be good fer ye. Fuck,” he swears, attempting to push his hips into Ghost’s hands. They don’t let him, pinning him back down with a brutal shove. “I’ll take everythin’ like a good boy, promise.”
“Mm,” Ghost hums, leaning back to get a good look at his soaked cunt. It twitches, hot and glistening, as if trying to entice him. He hates to admit it but it works harder than the god-damned devil. “I’m sure you will, Johnny.”
Ghost’s thumb rubs cruelly at his sergeant’s hole, only spreading the wetness around and onto the crevice of his thigh. Johnny whines, then promptly gets slapped on his cunt. Hard.
“Simon—!” he shouts, convulsing and gushing onto the large palm, still slotted against him. Ghost keeps on smiling like it’s the funniest thing he’s witnessed in quite awhile.
“Something you want, love?”
Another smack, another moan. The tan body in front of him spasms as if burned, hands grappling for the sheets and legs shaking in an effort to stay open. Ghost could do this the whole day. Johnny—not so much. This is hardly about what Johnny could do, though.
“Yes, yes, I wannae cum—”
“Pretty…?” Ghost hints with an amused lilt. He grinds his fingers in steady circles against the swollen clit, watching as his Johnny falls apart within seconds, brains and wit gone out the window because of the stimulation. The next slap has him throwing his head back and jaws dropping open, drool obscenely slipping past his lips.
“Please!”
The fingers disappear, leaving Johnny high and dry. The sob that leaves his mouth is almost nerve-wracking, cut short and miserable.
“Why,” Johnny croaks out, glaring at the ceiling with his baby blues full of unshed tears. A more fucked up part of Ghost thinks it’s everything he ever wants to see.
“You know why, brat,” he responds coolly, immediately returning to groping his inner thighs. The trembling in them is more satisfying than firing a headshot right in between an enemy’s eyes. “I’m not touching your dick until you earn it. Might wanna use that enthusiasm you showed earlier in front of everybody, maybe it’ll get ya somewhere.”
Predictably, Johnny whines and shuts his eyes closed.
“Yer evil,” he grumbles, quite like a kid who just got grounded. Ghost revels in the redness of his face and the upset frown drawn upon it. His Johnny is so pretty he wants to take a picture to keep in his pocket, cunt spread open and all.
“So I’ve been told,” Ghost murmurs, grinning wolfishly when Johnny quivers under his hands, this time because of two digits worming their way inside him.
A click of a cap later, Ghost starts working in earnest and Johnny honest to God trembles when he presses the pads of his fingers upwards. He strokes, unhurried, just observes Johnny take it without another word—if only he could be so sweet and pliant like that for him all the time. Ghost voices as much, and Johnny goes even redder. Although with how beautifully flushed he already is, the difference is rather scarce.
“Embarrassed, Johnny? After everything you pulled today?” he says conversationally, totally not squeezing his trigger finger along the two already inside Johnny’s cunt. His sergeant shifts and grinds his hips onto them, enjoying the stretch. Ghost knows he fucking does. “Don’t tell me getting no cock is what finally brings some shame to your whorish behavior.”
Finally reduced to quiet whines and no more bratty talkbacks, Johnny avoids Ghost’s stare and throws an arm over his face. Ghost stifles a laugh and curls his fingers upwards again.
“Don’t you look away from me now,” he chides, a hint of an angry growl at the end. Johnny’s pussy clenches around his digits like a vice so Ghost pushes into him harder, deeper, until the lewd squelch of it rings loudly in the barracks room.
Johnny drops his hand back onto the mattress and stares at Ghost with big, wet eyes.
“At least take aff yer mask,” he pleads, fucking himself back on the thick fingers. Ghost allows it, enraptured in the way his hips twist and his back arches off the bed. Proper slut, his Johnny is. “Please.”
“No,” he grins back. Johnny fucking pouts at the refusal and it’s like lighting up the fuse to Ghost’s dick. “You wanted my fingers. Well, you’re getting them, no? Shouldn’t you be thanking me instead of making more demands?”
“Simon—” is what Johnny manages before Ghost’s pinky swipes against his soaked folds and is shoved in, along with half of his broad palm. “Fuuuck, oh, Si,” Johnny babbles right away as his cunt is being filled to oblivion. He sounds fucking strangled and Ghost just wants to impale him on his arm, all sanity be damned.
Ghost’s palms are large—usually, three fingers are more than enough to loosen Johnny up, work him up and prep him for his dick. It’s quite the effort to take more, Ghost has to applaud him for it. That’s what he would normally do, praise Johnny for being good, make him squirm and flush with his approval, but his entire focus is somewhere else currently. God, does Johnny make a lovely picture all stretched out around his tattooed knuckles.
The first time Ghost pulls back and fucks his fingers in, Johnny writhes on his hand and would have snapped his legs closed if it wasn’t for Ghost’s bulk sitting between them. His hole is dripping despite the intrusion; very little of it is the lube Ghost poured over his fingers. He huffs at the thought, listening to the noise of Johnny’s little moans as he plows his hand into him.
Then, along with some gentle coaxing, forces his thumb in, too. He’s rewarded with a filthy cry and a slicker slide in, so ridiculously wet it’s starting to froth and dribble down his arm.
“That what you wanted, sweetheart? My entire hand up your little cunt?” Ghost teases, finally twisting his wrist around and folding his fingers into a loose fist. Johnny’s eyes roll back instantly and his entire body tenses, muscles taut and sweaty and so fucking delicious Ghost craves for a bite.
“Simon, please. It feels—it, ah,” Johnny mewls, interrupted by his own sighs when Ghost repeats the motion, grinding upwards. “I’m, I think—close, I’m clo—ooh, shite—!”
“Yeah? All it takes is your bitch button, Johnny?” Ghost drags the words out, pressing, pushing into the spot like a man on a mission. Johnny convulses with a shout, clenching and pulsing around his fist, much to Ghost’s delight. “See, didn’t even have to touch your useless dick.”
More gasping, more twitching follows, until Johnny’s body sags limply onto the sheets. But Ghost is far from done, bending forward to nuzzle at Johnny’s neck while his fingers, still inside, move.
“Can’t,” Johnny sobs at yet another stroke and yeah, he’s crying now, fat tears escaping his blue eyes to dampen the pillow underneath. The sight alone is so erotic Ghost is close to exploding like a fucking bomb himself.
“Can’t?” Ghost echoes, smirking; his cheeks are near hurting from all the smiling he’s done tonight. Johnny nods ruefully, winding his hands around Ghost’s nape. They sneak below his balaclava and this time, Ghost doesn’t stop him. “Don’t have the balls, Johnny?” Simon rumbles, sitting back up and dutifully restarting fisting his overstimulated cunt.
Johnny chokes out a laugh, calling him a numpty, and then, without delay, jerks and whines, trying to escape the overwhelming touch. Suddenly, fingers are on his clit, rubbing incessant circles into it, all the while the fist inside him doesn’t let up, not even for a second. It answers with its own pattern of twisting and grinding into Johnny’s walls, into that spot, into—
There’s buildup and release, wet, wet, gushing fucking everywhere, onto the bed and Simon’s lap, his clothes, hitting his bare face and dripping down his neck. Johnny whines and claws at the sheets throughout it all, sobbing tears of relief, eyes prettily unfocused and brows scrunched up in ecstasy.
Simon gapes like he’s been smacked dumb.
Careful, he pulls his hand out of Johnny’s soaked cunt, watching the tremors in his thighs, now increased tenfold in intensity. The stupefied expression on Johnny’s face as he comes down from his orgasm will be forever engraved into his mind.
“Wha’,” the sergeant slurs after a moment of floating, a moment of Simon kneading at his shaking limbs. “Wha’ ‘appened?”
Simon chews on his lip to stop himself from grinning. “You squirted.”
The disbelief in Johnny’s eyes is as clear as day.
“I’m never washing it off my face.”
“Bloody fuckin’ Jesus, Simon!”