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Something that Soap would never admit to anyone was the fact that he had seen Ghost without his mask regularly. Sure, the first year or so he had kept it on religiously, but after they had gotten to know one another, Ghost took the mask off all the time.
Playing cards, out for a smoke, driving on hot days, meal times, safehouses; any time that he and Ghost were alone was normally time designated to give the Lieutenants sensitive scars some breathing room.
He had assumed that it was much the same for everyone, that the mask was just a precaution and less of a feature.
He had assumed wrong.
It was late at night around a bar when he came to the realization that he may be something special to Ghost, something different than just a subordinate and a damn good friend.
He forgot who started it, but somehow the conversation turned to the topic of Ghost's edgelord mask.
“Think he’s ugly under there?” someone had quipped. “He could be ginger or balding for all we know.”
Soap, being the idiot he is and already a few glasses deep (because come on now, he’s Scottish, he’s got to get a head start to feel much of anything at all) had immediately replied. “He’s not.” without really thinking about it (well he was kinda strawberry-blondish, but his curls were as full as ever).
The table immediately went still, eyes snapping to where he had returned to sipping away at his drink.
“Wha? You lads must have seen him at least once! I’d call that bastard downright Bonnie.” because Ghost was an unusually pretty man; sharp jaw, full lips, a shaggy blonde high-and-tight too grown out to be anywhere near regulation (not that Soap was one to talk), and those damn amber eyes that looked something out of a poet's musings.
Even his scars, some so deep that they were painful to even look at, did nothing to detract from that whole fair-browed, long-lashed, doe-eyed thing that made him a pretty package.
“You’ve seen his face?” It was Gaz that really started to call attention to the conversation. “What does he look like? Even Price has no fucking clue anymore, and he tells me everything!”
And Soap, newly sobered up in the face of the realization that Ghost had remained hidden to everyone but him, shrugged. “Well, I’m not one to kiss and tell, only caught a glance or two, Ghostie and I do find ourselves partners sometimes.” (almost always, nowadays; Soap wondered if that really was the coincidence that he had always assumed it to be).
That had been enough to please the horde of drunk men, and if Soap smiled into his drink after that, well, no one could prove it.
After he grasped just how special his privileges were, he soaked the presence of Ghost, (of Simon) up like it was liquid gold. He took every opportunity to memorize the scars across his face, the bright gold-amber of his eyes, even the subtle glitter of a single silver stud in his left ear.
He would fill notebooks with pictures of Simon doing just about anything given the chance, he would slake the thirst under his skin with the texture of those tempting scars, breathe life into the lips bisected by cruel hands, worship the ridges of his too-thin ribs and run tongue-touches along the dark circles so deep set he doubted the need for the ever-present eye-black.
The few sketches he did have the time to make stayed tucked against his heart; for his own use in moments of weakness when he was torn from the object of his desire (read: obsession, addiction ) and thrown somewhere full of death and loneliness.
It was just something to take the edge off, something set to the sounds of his own panting with the worn pages lit in moonlight and the sickly almond-sweet smell of C4 while he waited for his opportunity to come to fruition.
They were sketches that not even Simon himself knew that he had, a tiny, harmless collection.
It was one day, crouched over a feverish charcoal scrawl of the lieutenant's brilliant eyes; gold-rimmed against his ever-present grease paint, that Soap finally realized what it all meant.
It was clear to Soap that the man who made the drawings of his lieutenant was in love with him
He was in love with Ghost, and there was nothing that he could do about it.
The first time it happened there was only the adrenaline to blame.
Soap had wanted Ghost for as long as he knew the man; but he also respected him.
It went beyond that even; he admired Ghost, worshiped him. Soap had heard legends about the Lieutenant before he had ever met him (literal Ghost stories), some so much larger than life that he had scoffed and shrugged them off; mentally filing the tall-tales as just something his seniors had made up to tease him upon his acceptance of Prices mysterious offer to join the 141.
Not one of those stories held a candle to reality.
Ghost perfectly covered Soaps flaws and then some; he was patient, silent, an unmatched physical combatant and a god behind the scope; Soap had found himself an inch off center of the crosshairs of that gun a dozen times, living and dying by the will of the watcher in the hills.
He would take that chance again.
Not to say that Soap was a slouch; he was a damn good sniper, he was infamously efficient, and he would go so far as to call himself the best demolitions expert this side of the continent (he didn’t drop out of the chem program at school for nothing!) but Ghost was beyond human.
An impossible equal and an impossible desire. Unreachable, untouchable, unsurpassable.
Or you know, he had been.
Until his tongue was down Soaps throat.
It was admittedly a close call. Soap had swept the building, practiced and with the hyperaware ease that gave him his nickname.
Everything on his side went according to plan, and when something went wrong, it was always, always on his side.
Not this time.
The comms erupted into sound, Ghosts baritone sending shivers up his spine in a way that it normally didn’t as the callout for encountered hostiles came through.
“Perimeter breached, enemy-” the comms cut into static, and Soap was moving before he had fully processed the words.
He was like a dog at the scent, his head full of nothing but simon simon ghost simon SIMON until he reached the rooftop that his lieutenant had set his nest on.
It was only after he had thrown himself through the door, splintering the frame in the process, that he thought about what could be behind it.
He had one second to register the figures fighting for dominance at the edge of the roof before there was a gun pointed in his direction.
Firefights were a time when you ran on instinct, and most people had to train the impulse to use their higher brain functions out of them.
Soap liked to joke that he never had any higher brain functions to begin with.
It was his ability to roll with his impulses under pressure that made him so good at sweeping buildings and setting charges, never a tremble in sight.
He returned fire without a stutter in his step, throwing himself forward and lowering his shoulder to take the assailant down at center-mass.
His aim was true, and his following shoulder threw the ragdoll of a body to the edge of the roof.
“Duck!”
Soap hit the deck the moment he heard his Lieutenants voice, rolling back to his feet just in time to see Ghost slit the throat of the last man on the roof (a man who, in retrospect, was in a good position to ambush Soap where he was previously preoccupied).
The adrenaline took him so high that Soap felt it in his soul , but all he could think about was honey-gold eyes fixed on his own, a voice rumbling thunder into his cells; sweet mercy, his cock was rock hard from watching his superior officer slit a man's throat and all he could do was wish it was him.
Eat me alive Simon, eat me alive.
“Are you even listening, Johnny?” The lieutenant looked beyond angry; he looked ready to kill (Soap hoped he would, his cock twitched in his pants at the mere thought of it).
He felt his lip twitch upward, even in the face of rage that would curdle the guts of a greater being, Soap was pathetic, grinning almost giddily under the thrown-out scraps of negative attention.
“Didn’t catch that L.T, care to try again?” Death below and gods above, Soap was a kept man.
“You-” Ghost took a threatening step forwards before his eyes went wide “-when did you get hit? You’re bleeding!”
Was he?
Soap lifted a hand to his neck, a thick rivulet of blood running down his shoulder and flooding the fabric of his vest.
“Its not much L.T, I’ll be-”
“Take it off.”
“Didn’t know you were that desperate to see me naked; but if you-hng!” he cut himself off as Ghost dug his hands under the material of his vest and ripped the clasps down, freeing the side buckles and allowing large, cold hands to skate over the thin fabric of Soaps undershirt.
“H-hey! I can do it-” Ghost did not stop his attempts to check the wound, the loosened vest allowing for more leeway for wandering hands.
And also just enough wiggle room for a certain notebook to drop free, falling to the ground and slowly, almost torturously, settling on a brilliant charcoal drawing of grease-stained skin and gold eyes, peeking from the holes in a distinct balaclava.
Ghost didn’t even notice. He was still occupied with ripping into the clothes between him and the jagged wound that still bled into the collar of Soaps shirt.
But Soap noticed, he noticed and was staunchly reminded that he was a man in love, hopeless and pathetic.
“Listen to me Johnny!” Ghost shoved him, wrenching his attention from the picture on the ground and back to the present, back to the real thing that had been so poorly captured in charcoal. “Your impulsiveness will get you killed one day! If you can’t follow orders you’ll only end up-”
Ghost was so close, smelling like gunpowder and sweat; addicting really. Soap could see his anger even through the mask, gold eyes narrowed and those ridiculous (long, thick, and impossibly blonde) eyelashes standing stark against the eye-black.
Sweet death, his drawings really were a poor replacement, this memory would serve him well in the dark of night; he could even feel the chill that seemed to ooze off of Ghost at all times.
Soap ran hot. Soap could warm him up.
Hands were gripping tight to his shoulders, fingers digging into the bloody gash that came from who-knows-where (it was deeper than he thought, closer to his jugular than what was a safe margin).
No here is where Soap fucked up.
Ghost was wearing his hard-shell mask, but the lower portion was just his balaclava, soft and thin; highlighting the movement of the lips underneath of it. He was hypnotized by it, drawn into it.
Before he knew it he was leaning in…and he was kissing Ghost.
It was through the mask, chaste and quick, with only a single swipe of tongue to feel out the seam of lips and taste the acrid sweat and smoke that clung to the fabric.
God, he wanted to hold Ghosts jaw and brush his teeth to wipe the taste of cigarettes away. What would he taste like then? What did Ghost really taste like?
He pulled back from the kiss after barely a moment, the realization of what he had done sinking ugly claws into his throat.
“I-Ghost please-” his mouth was open to apologize one moment, but the next it was occupied with Ghosts tongue.
Ghost kissed like really was trying to eat Soap alive.
Large hands went to the back of his head, thumbs caressing his cheekbones as Ghost (fuck, Simon ) took and took and took.
Without the mask Ghost tasted like sawdust, old fabric and the salt of sweat. To Soap, it was the sweetest ambrosia and the cruelest torture.
He kissed back, kissed like he was trying to inhale Simon's breath, like he was drawing in his soul, categorizing the enzymes in his saliva.
But there wasn’t nearly enough time for that, and the firefight had ripped them apart before they could establish what it all meant.
“Johnny.”
He shuddered at the sound of his name, gripping onto Ghosts waist tighter, thumbs drawing deceptively lazy circles on sharp hip bones even as he was taken closer to a precipice that he would never tire of tipping over.
“Simon, baby that’s so good, just like that.” his head fell back onto the wall behind him.
This was risky, this was dangerous and stupid and all together something that should never have happened.
Oh but it was good, it was so, so good.
Simon had shoved him up against a wall in the middle of training, out of the way where no one would think to look for them even if they disappeared.
The intensity in which the man had yanked down Soaps pants, just enough to expose his cock to a greedy, spit-slick palm, had taken him from flaccid to full-mast in less time than he had to react to the sudden attack.
The sound of his precum slicking his lieutenant's hand drove him mad, but not as mad as what Simon had made it abundantly clear that he wanted.
He had pulled his shirt up the moment Soaps dick had been hard, pressing Soap to his abs and smearing the extra precum into his skin; paying no attention to the bulge in his own pants as he focused on getting Soap to cum onto the strip of revealed flesh between his hips and navel.
Ghost had always had a thing for Soaps cum, he loved seeing it, loved being reminded of it; it would be gross if it wasn’t the single hottest thing that Soap had ever borne witness to.
“Y-yer doing so well for me, you always know how to please me. Ya gonna wear me all day? Feel me on you even when I can’t hold you like this.” His hands tighten again on Ghost's hips, fingertips digging into pale skin hard enough to leave prints behind.
Ghost growled at that, stepping impossibly closer to slot their hips together, spreading his legs a bit to accommodate Soap's shorter height.
“Not gonna waste a drop- Johnny, JohnnyJohnnyJohnny please-”
His name came out in a chant, like a prayer, like a plea for more.
“Hush Mo gh-Simon, hush, I’ll give you what you want I-I’ll make sure to mark you up so good.”
Brown eyes watched him through the mask, hooded under the fluttering of eyelashes so fair and blonde that they stood out against the grease paint.
How a man so terrifying could be so delicate and beautiful was beyond him; hell, how a man like that could want to touch him was beyond him.
He was cumming before he registered it, the orgasm not so much hitting him as washing over him. It came in a gentle, pulsating wave, gently destructive as Ghosts hand slowed to a loose, wet grip around his softening cock.
The view of his cum splashing against fair skin lit him on fire and cast him from heaven, the thought that Ghost was going to wear it like it was some kind of secret accessory doomed him to hell.
Soap would be lying if he said he had not developed a fetish for seeing his spend over scarred skin.
Ghost, Simon , held onto him for a moment longer, waiting until he went fully soft and sensitive.
Soap let him keep his grip, the rough calluses of Ghost's hands sending slight shocks up his hips.
He reached for the man in front of him, but Soaps fingers had barely brushed his belt loops before Ghost stepped out of his space, yanked down his shirt, and then vanished like his namesake.
Soap panted, letting his head fall back against the gritty sandstone of the wall.
“Fuck.”
It wasn’t that Soap didn’t enjoy having sex with Simon. Oh no, he fucking loved having sex with Simon.
The problem was that sex was all they ever did. It wasn’t that Soap couldn’t keep up (oh no, he was still young enough that his dick got hard with nothing but the thought of those juicy, well formed, hard won CAKES-he was getting off track), but sometimes he just wanted a bit of conventional romance. He was a sentimental man after all, even if his dick was hard he could put off his own urges and go for a cuddle and a kiss, a nice dinner and a glass of wine, or even just a good old session of hand holding after blowing shit up at the range; he didn’t need the sex all of the time.
Nor did he want it all of the time.
The problem was that Ghost did want it all of the time. He normally barely managed to get the door closed before the older man was on him and instinct took over in the heat of the moment.
The press of Ghost against him was addicting, yes, but even when he mounted the older man and did his best to let his body speak the words he wasn’t allowed to, it just… it was never enough .
Soap wanted so much more than just sex. He wanted to be allowed to love Ghost, to love Simon as openly and desperately as he did.
He wanted to take him gently, to carry him in his arms across the threshold, he wanted to feel him as a silent presence in the gym and feed him grandma's recipe for shepherds pie because, dang it, Ghost was just a touch too slender.
He wanted to see that slender figure in a tuxedo, mask and all, as long legs carried him across the aisle to where Johnny was decked out in a full kilt and waiting for him at the altar.
John McTavish wanted to marry Simon Riley, wanted to make him Simon McTavish (a strong name, that was), wanted to wake him in the morning and squabble with him over how terrible tea was.
John McTavish was hopelessly in love with Simon, the man behind the mask of Ghost.
But if all he would ever get of Simon was the bit below the belt, then he would long for what was behind his ribs in silence and ache.
“L.T, please .” he begged the man kneeling between his legs to do something, to do anything besides the torment he was putting Soap through.
Soap had never been self-conscious about his dick, he knew he was bigger than average, especially in his girth; he had decided long ago that it was a good enough dick and could laugh easily at any tiny penis joke that floated his way without feeling the need to defend himself.
But with Ghosts pink, spit-swollen lips stretched around it, a rippled, broken moan tearing out of his throat as he tried (and failed) to take him to the root. Soap decided that he actually loved his dick; his dick was actually great, he would sing praises about his dick.
Ghost was gagging on it; sloppy in his blowjobs unlike he was in all other aspects of his life.
“So sweet for me, so good-” he felt like he had ascended at the moan that the praise ripped from Ghost's lips. “-fuck, I won’t last like this-Simon!”
Out of the sliver of his eyes that were left open, he saw Simon's legs shift open, pushing his dick further forward.
Soap, in turn, brought his boot forward and nudged it under the lieutenant's crotch, giving him something to grind against.
Simon moaned and rode against his leg, pulling himself closer so that he could roll his hips wholeheartedly.
Oh fuck, Simon was humping him, taking his pleasure like a dog.
Soap looked down into lidded, whiskey eyes, hands coming up to cradle Simon's face gently between his palms.
Tears were welling in those beautiful eyes, so reverent as they peered up at him through blonde lashes stark against the grease paint.
He came like that, staring into the face of his lover, melting into the chair he was seated in.
He barely even noticed when Ghost pulled off of him, hypnotized by the bright, ravenous heat in those eyes when the older man swallowed every last drop of the cum that had spilled into his mouth.
He reached to help Simon off of the floor. “Did you-”
“I’ll see you tonight.” Ghost stood between his legs and tucked Soap back into his pants, carefully zipping up his pants. “The usual.”
Soap watched him go with a dry mouth, his chest cracked open and oozing.
He wanted so badly.
Fuck.
Soap was young. Unusually young for a sergeant, and certainly much, much younger than Ghost.
Ghost was old for a lieutenant, he had no passion for leadership and no ambition to move further up the ranks, not like Soap did.
Soap wanted more, soap was hungry for it; he flourished as a leader, setting even the greenest recruit at ease in a firefight. He was good at his job, deadly, and every fucking bit as vicious as Ghost was despite the jolly kindness that everyone underestimated him for.
Ghost knew better, Johnny was powerful ; the kind of man that masses would fall to their knees for if he requested it.
He didn’t, because he was frighteningly aware of his own power.
And he was still so young.
Ghost remembered being that young; and he could not fathom how Johnny remained so driven and focused.
Young men (in his experience) were still discovering the concept of respect, they didn’t know when to listen and their focus was…questionable.
Soap was the exception to that particular standard, somehow able to keep up with his jabs and cheer while simultaneously aware of exactly when he needed to begin taking orders.
He was damn good at his job; because of course, Johnny couldn’t be incompetent enough to squish the positive obsession that brewed in his guts whenever Soap (what a stupid name he had thought that to be when he first heard it) swerved past his expectations.
Well, most expectations, Soap still met a few of them.
Young men had high libidos.
On some level, Ghost had known that, but he had never had the curse of experiencing that for himself.
He had never wanted to have sex with anyone, even when he was young.
When he did get off, it was when he woke with sticky boxers or when he was desperate enough to rub one out while thinking about nothing but relieving the oversensitivity in his pants.
Soap was not like him, he was perfect, godly, almost incomprehensible in all of the ways that he was dichotomous, merciful and brutal all in the same hand.
And he was a young man, unbroken and in possession of the normal, high libido.
Ghost found himself chomping at the bit for the opportunity to service that libido.
It had come to him after a mission, when he and Johnny had both been caught in bouts of insomnia and wound up in the gym. They had just been on the mats, pressed hip-to shoulder and twisting each other into fucking pretzels in their attempts to pin the other, but for it was only after they were done, as Ghost reached out to take an offered water bottle, that thirty-some odd years of repressed sexual urges came roaring to the surface.
As soon as Soaps napalm-stained hand had made contact with his knuckles in an (almost) chaste touch, he had suddenly understood why people had sex.
Oh holy shit, how he want to have sex; sex with Soap, specifically. Sex of all kinds.
The man in front of him was suddenly more than his best friend and teammate, he was the hottest thing that Ghost had ever laid eyes on.
Johnny had always been handsome, never bad to look at, but now he was something ethereal. His hair was blacker, his eyes were bluer, and every drop of sweat that dripped over his body was made of something akin to nectar.
Ghost had never wanted anything more than he wanted sex (love, eternity, with Johnny.
And now he had it; he had sex with Johnny.
He only had sex.
He would take whatever the younger man would give him, and if this was it (this was it, why else would Soap need him?) then he would take it.
Therein came the problem; he wanted to have sex with Soap all the time, he really, really did. But he wasn’t a young man anymore, his body didn’t respond like it could have if he wasn’t broken. He realistically could not keep up with Soap's libido.
But he had to, he had to be the one that kept Johnny satisfied.
If he didn’t, then Johnny would find someone that could.
So he could do it! He promised!
So far today, Johnny had cum twice. Once on a training exercise while tucked up to the skin of Ghosts stomach (he could still feel it there, dried and tacky, reminding him with a shudder whenever he shifted) and once down Ghosts throat, clutching at the curls of blonde that peeked out from under the balaclava, leaving his lips swollen and a lingering disappointment that he wouldn’t get to wear Soaps cum under his mask for the rest of the day.
It made Ghost unbelievably horny to wear Soaps cum like he was; he loved the mark of possession and the reminder of ownership that it represented. Hell, he normally got hard at just the thought of it.
Once he had run Soap through his paces a bit, the sex was mind blowing and mutually satisfying. He may not be as young as Soap, but when he got it up, he gave it good; if only the once.
So why the fuck was he not getting hard .
For the fourth time in as many days, Ghost had Johnny in his room, in his space, sitting on the edge of his bed and looking like a god chained to a golden throne, something so beautiful that the skies would weep should they see how he had come to be tainted by Ghosts hands.
Even just the glow of his blue eyes, unnaturally bright in the thin strips of sunlight coming through the blinds, was causing a heat to crawl out of his gut and into his chest, a beast around his heartbeats, dragging a flush from the apples of his cheeks to the top of his chest.
And he was still soft, pressed against the meat of his thighs within the confines of his pants.
His attention was ripped away from the roiling anxiety as above him, Soap hummed in satisfaction, thumbs gently kneading into the tense skin of Ghost's shoulders.
“So eager.” the Scottish brogue rumbled through his bones in the sweetest torment, some days he felt as if Soap could just talk him to orgasm. “Sweet boy, what are you thinking of doing down there?”
Ghosts head was starting to go floaty; it didn’t happen every time, but when Johnny started to talk like this, heady and deep, praising and dominant. Ghost (Simon, now that it was just the two of them alone) practically left his body and ascended to heaven.
He was in heaven. Heaven was his head pillowed against Johnny's thigh with his scent around the both of them.
“Whatever you want Johnny.” even to his own ears, his voice was destroyed, ruined beyond all recognition. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
The rest of the sentence went without saying; he would do anything to have this, anything to be the one that received the privilege of Johnny’s favor, anything to be the one that received the slightest piece of a master so kind as the one above him.
“Lets make you more comfortable then.” Johnny murmured into the air with a faint smile on his lips, too soft to be a smirk. “How about you pull those pants down, not all the way, just enough to give some access to that pretty little ass of yours.”
A spark of eager excitement mingled with relief in Simon's head; pretty, he was being pretty for Johnny! And he didn’t need to worry about his cock being seen; pulsing weakly but still stubbornly soft.
He did as he was asked, hurrying to unbuckle his belt and pull his pants down past the swell of his ass, allowing them to dig harshly into the start of his thighs.
He kept his underwear up, he hadn’t received instructions to rid himself of them yet.
Johnny cocked his head, looking down him with unspeakably sharp benevolence. “You only ever wear the issued underwear.”
He twitched at the comment, a small shard of panic passing through him. Should he have worn something else? Should he have not worn anything at all?
Sensing his emotion with the same eerie accuracy that he managed to employ when wrangling new recruits, Johnny's hands soothed over the balaclava.
Oh, it was still on; Johnny always waited for his permission to take it off.
Johnny was a kind master.
“I’m sorry, I can wear whatever you want-I’ll-I’ll do better for you.” he squirmed, pressing his face further into Johnny's thighs and leaning into the touch over his skull at the same time. Begging to be forgiven.
“None of that, mo ghràdh.”
Gaelic, Scottish Gaelic, was technically Johnny's first language. He had told Simon about how his Gran taught him when she took over his care as a baby.
Simon loved when he used it, feeling the words palpably as they coaxed a hidden, shy part of himself to the forefront with something that felt almost private. A secret just for him to hear.
The language flowed smoothly over Johnny’s tongue, sweet words that soothed Simon back into a state of contentment even if he hadn’t the foggiest idea what they could mean.
“I just meant that it would be nice to put you in something to show you off, a little scrap of pretty lace for my pretty boy.”
Simon thrilled and deflated all at once. He had seen things like that in the porn he began to watch for research; determined to keep Soap interested in their sex life. But it was always on men that were much smaller than Simon, much more delicate, less muscle-bound and without the countless scars.
Maybe if he lost a bit of weight? What if Johnny still didn’t like it? What if he tried to wear the silky stockings and garters that he had seen on the others and it looked unnatural against his body?
Or worse, what if Simon liked wearing the silks and lace and sheer bralette and Johnny was disgusted with it?
“I’d love to dress you up. you’re so perfect for me, you deserve a little something nice, isn’t that right?”
The thought of Johnny’s disgust flew out of his mind with the words. He nodded desperately, mouth falling open so that he could lap pathetically at the thumb that was gently working into the corner of his mouth.
Yes! He was perfect for Johnny, he would be perfect for Johnny.
“You always wear black; I’ll get you some color, something to cradle you when you get all flushed for me.” if possible, his voice had gotten even deeper.
From the ground, Simon could only hope that Johnny would choose blue for him, blue like the eyes that looked down on him with such reverence that he could almost believe he was beautiful.
“Take your underwear down, let me see you, let me see how far that pretty blush goes.”
Simon rushed to follow the order, pulling his underwear down to reveal his skin.
The fabric bit deliciously into his flesh, stinging sweetly and forcing his back into a taught curve.
Above him, Johnny groaned. “Give me your hand, Darling.”
Simon did, watching with his mouth open in a pant as white teeth grazed his fingertips, pulling his glove off.
From the twinkle in Johnny’s eyes, he guessed that the other man knew exactly what he was doing; he was ruining Simon, he was possessing him in body and soul.
He remained limp and pliant against Johnny's thigh as his hand was gently coated in lube, then lowered back down to be in his own control.
“Be good and open yourself for me.” The voice was softer now, but just as commanding.
Simon eagerly followed the order, shoving a finger to the second knuckle inside of himself and flinching at the sudden burn.
Johnny let out a ‘tsk’ of chastisement and immediately took Simon's arm by the elbow, pulling it up and out of himself.
Simon whined in frustration, he wanted to hurry, he wanted to take Johnny's cock and please him, wanted to worship him in the throne of his lap.
“Don’t hurt yourself Darling, I want you loose and sweet. Use just the tip of your finger, yeah? Tease just the rim.”
He did as he was asked, stroking the pad of a single finger against his hole. It twitched embarrassingly, hungry for penetration, hungry to swallow Johnny's cock; but Simon was a good boy and he followed instructions, stroking the skin until it swelled and softened while burying his nose in the crease of Johnny's thigh.
Heaven, he smelled like heaven.
“Good boy.” a hand took him by the back of the neck. “Stiffen your finger up now, I want you to sit on it.”
Simon nodded, allowing himself to be tugged out of his forward lean and into a sit on the back of his heels, forcing him down to the hilt on a single, long finger.
“Move it.”
He tried to shift his hips forward, tried to ride against his hand, but Johnny held him tightly.
“Not like that, come on now, pretty thing.” Johnny leaned forward, bringing his lips nearly into contact with Simon's own.
He lunged forward, trying desperately to lick into the other man's mouth and taste him. He was held back by the hand gripping his neck.
Johnny chuckled, just barely out of reach, so close that his words brushed the barest of kisses against Simon's lips. “Gentle circles, come on.”
He whined, but dutifully stirred his finger inside of himself.
“There you are, so good for me, so sweet.” he rubbed his nose against Simons in an eskimo kiss, the gentlest of affections and the most addicting drug. “Do you hear how wet you are for me?”
He could, the sound it was making was mortifying, but it also made his blood pound.
“Give yourself another finger.” Johnny pulled him forward, giving him the clearance to slip the pad of a second finger against his entrance.
He waited there, looking up at Johnny through his lashes.
“Ease it in, come on now, let me see it.” He pulled Simon into his crotch, watching as he pushed his ass out and exposed where his second finger was slowly wiggling into his body.
A thick groan left Johnny's throat. “Oh Simon, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He ground himself against Simon's face, clearly hard and thick in his pants.
Simon's mouth watered, head full of nothing but Johnny Johnny Johnny.
He twisted his fingers into his body, trying to open himself deeper, wider . Johnny liked it when he was loose; he praised him for being so soft and taking him so easily.
“None of that.” the hand on the back of his neck returned, yanking him away from Johnny's scent and forcing him back down to his heels, limiting the movement of his fingers.
He whined and a hand, hot even through his shirt, swept down his spine, reveling in the curve of his body.
He felt like an object, like a doll for Johnny to use.
“What did I tell you about going slow for me?”
A hand gripped his jaw, forcing him to focus as Johnny crouched in front of him, all predator and muscle.
He could only stick his tongue out, lapping a weak apology against Johnny's palm.
Johnny's eyes were hard; chips of sapphire, crystalline and calculating.
Simon had never felt so small.
“Pathetic thing.” His voice had lost some of its soft teasing, it was harder now, stricter. “I warned you not to hurt yourself, are you so desperate that you couldn’t wait?”
To his own shame, he found himself nodding, still mouthing uselessly at Johnny's hand.
“Alright then.”
With nothing more than a condescending murmur and a flash of white teeth, Johnny picked him up.
Johnny picked him up .
Simon had never been picked up in his life, he had never even thought about it. He had always assumed that he was too big and too heavy to be lifted; but Johnny wasn’t even struggling, he was lifting him like it was nothing.
Immediately, Simon's brain went into the equivalent of the blue screen of death. Johnny???? Was picking him???? Up????
He was promptly dropped on the bed, letting out a huff of breath as he stared with wide eyes up at a man that had suddenly become so much more.
Johnny licked his lips, a sharp flash of gold catching Simon's eye.
Immediately, he scabbled at the sheets. “J-Johnny, your mouth-”
“Like it?” he stuck out his tongue, a gold stud flashing in the low light. “Normally I use a silicone retainer, but I figured I’d dress up a bit for you.” he ran a hand over Simon's stomach, hooking over his hip and yanking .
Simon yelped as he landed face-down, his pants and underwear still bunched uselessly under his ass.
“So sweet for me.” Johnny leaned down and pressed his chest to Simon's back, enveloping him in warmth.
A hand fell heavily on his ass, pulling him apart and revealing his hole; he could feel it twitching, trying to tempt Johnny into forgoing this torture and taking him in his entirety.
A single finger traced over the perfect little bud, marveling in how swollen it was, shiny and loose enough to leak lube on the prodding fingers.
A finger pad dipped against the entrance, somehow coated in fresh lube and swirling at his insides.
“Johnny-Johnny please!”
“Patience mo ghràdh.” lips fell against his ass, selecting a spot to kiss before harshly biting into the flesh, the glide of that golden stud soothing over the bruised skin.
Simon howled as the pain coupled with two of Johnny's thick fingers finding his prostate, drawing merciless circles around it, tempting it to swell.
He sobbed into the sheets, trying to cant his hips back into the touch.
Johnny immediately withdrew, leaving Simon to mutter a garbled string of pleas that had neither sentence structure or coherence.
“I told you not to hurt yourself.” a heavy strike landed on one of his asscheeks, making him arch his back with a moan that was obscene even to his own ears. “You want to be bad, hm? Want to hurt?”
Another strike landed on the crease of his ass, then again over his hole. Simon felt ready to cry at the sensation, each strike in the perfect shape of Johnny's hand, heavy and heated by the pressure, followed up by a stroke of that devilish, pierced tongue.
There were more strikes after that, each one causing Simon to choke out a punch-’yes, I’m sorry, thank you!’ as it landed.
“Come here.” Johnny fisted his hands in the material of Simon's pants, just on either side of his knees, pulling him until his legs could no longer support him and he was forced to fall onto his stomach with a harsh 'oof'.
He was propped over Johnny's lap, this pelvis elevated and his legs splayed to accommodate wide hips. The other man rose to his knees to increase the angle Simon had to maintain, forcing his ass upward into what could only be called a presenting position.
He could feel himself gaping, clenching around nothing, the combat pants he still wore pushing into the plumpness of his ass and thighs.
The stretch was delicious and lewd, making him bury his head in his hands as he suddenly felt so exposed despite having all of his clothing on.
"Oh Simon." Johnny moaned from behind him, gripping at Simons elbows and tugging him further into the arch until he was unable to hide his face, forced to look back over his shoulder and witness the man crouching behind him.
"There you are." Johnny's smile was more of a baring of teeth, the gold of the stud flashing once more as he licked his lips.
He released Simons elbows, dropping his large, hot hands to the ass in his lap instead. Johnny kneaded at the flesh bulging around the top of his pants, squeezing his ass together and then pulling apart, holding Simon open so that he could slip the tips of thick, clever thumbs into his hole and hook around the edges, tugging them in opposite directions.
"So beautiful, I love this part of you, so soft." the coo of praise was coupled with the massaging of those slick fingers, slowly pushing themselves inside of Simons hole past the knuckle. He palmed Simons glutes simultaneously, pulling Simons hole wider while worshiping the globes of hard-won muscle. "So strong, such a pretty boy for me."
Clever fingers traveled to pinch at Simons thighs, digging into the generous curve of muscle and fat, encouraging his trembling legs to fully give out as he surrendered himself over to his Master, his Johnny .
“That’s it.” thick fingers found his ass again, easily sliding into his gaping hole and twisting down on that spot inside of him that made his vision flash with stars.
He immediately started drooling on himself, unable to do anything but lay on display for his Johnny, merciful in his ministrations as a third finger plucked at the rim of his entrance.
“Do you feel that mo ghràdh?”
How could Simon not feel it? Johnny's fingers were so thick, so big. They moved inside of him with a filthy squelch, a free hand alternating between hooking a fingertip on the entrance of his hole ( tugging at it) and soothing across the impact-warm, kiss-bruised skin of his ass.
“Yessss-yes, Johnny, Johnny, m-master I-”
The fingers inside of him suddenly stilled, making Simon let out a garbled ‘nng’ as his hips tried to chase the wicked ministrations at his Masters hands.
“You little minx.” Johnny's voice had gone into a full snarl, strong hands flipping Simon onto his back and clawing at his clothes.
His shirt was ripped off of him, his balaclava left carefully in place. Johnny groaned at the remnants of his spend, still laying on Simons stomach from earlier that day, wiping it away with the shirt he had just removed.
“You’re a filthy thing, mo ghràdh.”
Simon shivered. He was! He was a filthy thing for his master, for the man that held his heart and didn’t even know it.
And then Johnny's hands fell to his pants.
It was like he had been doused in ice water, Simon retreated and Ghost roared to the surface, suddenly remembering the problem (or lack thereof) that resided behind the cotton fabric.
“Soap, wait!” but it was too late, his pants were ripped off and Johnny saw, in all his shame, that Ghost was still soft, leaking gratuitously against his lower stomach.
He saw Soaps brow furrowed in confusion, fingers hesitantly tightening where they rested on pale hips.
“Are you not-are you alright?”
Soap honestly didn’t know what to say, one minute he had Ghost as Simon , soft and sweet and oh-so submissive today, beneath him; moaning and squirming under hands that loved him so desperately.
The next, it was Ghost that watched him with wary, scared eyes, flicking a gaze like ice between his face and the flaccid cock that lay on pale skin.
“Are you not-are you alright?” he had thought that Simon was enjoying this, that he was liking the ways he was being touched.
Was Soap wrong? Had he failed to read the signs?
He started to pull away, but Ghost's hands were suddenly clutching at his forearms, a touch of Simon seeping back into whiskey-gold eyes as the fear turned to panic.
“Wait-wait I can-I can do it!” one of Simon's hands wandered down to his soft cock, stroking at it desperately. “Just-if you give me a bit-”
Tears, Ghost was crying under the balaclava, pathetically giving his dick a few more tugs before Soap reached a hand down to stop him.
“None of that now, you’ll hurt yourself.”
“Please.” Ghost’s breath was coming heavy and fast. “I can get it up, I promise! Don’t- don’t let it be someone else!”
Soap broke into a thousand pieces.
“Oh mo ghràdh, my Simon.'' He took both of Simon's hands, forcing them to the bed on either side of the other man's head. “There is no one else.”
But Simon was not listening, he was too far gone, begging for Johnny-for his Master- to stay. Saying that he would be good, that he would be better if only given another chance.
Johnny blanketed him with his body, laying his full weight over Simon's chest, allowing long limbs to wrap around him like he was a raft in a storm.
“Breathe mo ghràdh, if you want to be good, breathe for me.”
Simon took a massive, shuddering breath.
“Hold it, that’s good, now let it go.”
Simon shook even at something so small, suddenly seeming tiny as he lay, completely limp, beneath Soap's body; he hiccupped wetly, quiet even as he shattered enough to cry.
Simon was incredibly strong, to see him cry was terrifying.
Soap stamped down his fear, focusing on the man beneath him, keeping up a gentle stream of instruction and praise.
“Good boy, so sweet, so perfect for me. Keep breathing just like that” He slid a hand under Simon's mask to scratch at the blonde curls, reveling in the deep hum that he received in response.
He cradled the body beneath him until Simon's breathing finally settled, and then he cradled him for a bit more, just feeling the warmth slowly soak into the chill that the man always seemed to hold.
“What happened, Simon?” He waited for a bit, but got no response. “Simon?” he ran a thumb under the mask, gently turning Simon to face him.
Their noses barely brushed in their position, causing him to gently rub them together in a parallel to what he had done just a few moments earlier.
To his delight, Simon huffed out a chuckle, pressing his face closer.
“Talk to me, mo ghràdh.” he brushed the barest of kisses against the others lips.
“I-it felt good, I just-” Simon shrugged helplessly, unable to get out more than that as he squirmed uncomfortably beneath Johnny's body.
“You just weren’t getting hard?”
Simon shook his head, burying himself into Johnny's neck, weakly sucking at the skin.
It was self soothing, the suckling, he was always sucking at any bit of skin that was near him
“Simon, why didn’t you tell me?” That was what confused him most, it wasn’t like dysfunction was unusual in the military; the stress was common, almost to be expected.
“I-” he gripped tighter at Soaps shirt. “I wanted to spend the night with you.”
Oh, be still his poor heart; this man didn’t want to have sex, he had wanted to cuddle .
“Aye, but we dinae need to have sex to do that.” he stroked over Simon's hair. “Couldae taken you out, gone on a proper date, couldae gotten a suite for the night and cooked you a big meal, used the jacuzzi and everything.”
In his arms, Simon stiffened “A real date?” His voice was so small it was almost diminutive, contrasting the deep baritone. “With sex?”
“No mo ghràdh, of course not.”
“But-” Simon's leg nudged between his, brushing against his still-hard cock. “You’re hard.”
He hummed and kissed along the ridge of Simon's brow through the mask. "Course I am, I’ve got this lovely little thing pressed against me, all naked and pliant.'' He let his fingertips trail down Simon's chest, flicking his nipple with idle precision.
Beneath him, Simon twitched and whimpered.
“But I never need sex to be with you.” he cupped Simon's cheek, kissing at the skin exposed around his eyes. “You impossible man.”
“So you won’t- you wouldn’t-” Simon chewed at his lip, raising a shaking hand to his mask to tug it off.
Soap inhaled sharply, taking in the matted, blonde curls that were somehow still so perfect and the teakwood eyes, the crooked nose and the series of scars lancing down the left side of Simon's face; three of them healed in gnarled-silver splendor.
Johnny would fall to his knees if he was standing. He was a man indebted to the angel that had fallen from heaven to land beneath him, a worshiper in the path of a violent, merciful god that splayed against the sheets and offered reverence in his body.
Gold lashes fluttered low against sharp cheekbones, only a sliver of honey-gold still visible and glowing like lantern-light luring the unworthy to a thousand little deaths.
“You wouldn’t fuck me?”
“Mo ghràdh, it would hurt you-I’d never-” he broke off in a moan as Simon wrapped his impossibly strong, thick legs around his waist, grinding the generous plumpness of his ass against his cock and turning what coherency he had left into distant clouds. He groaned.
“It still felt nice, I just-please be close to me.” Simon's hands were everywhere; over his face, in his hair, sliding under his shirt.
“Alright, alright-” he tried to pull away and found himself stuck, held tight against the insistent, tight circles of Simon's hips. “Let me take my clothes off, I’ll be right back, I promise.”
He had never wanted to strip so fast in his life, but he forced himself to go slow, to fold His own and Simon's clothing, to get matching glasses of water, to untangle the duvet and flat sheet from beneath the sprawled body of his lover.
Only when things were set to order and the last lamp was turned off in favor of the gentle glow of the moon streaming through the lone window did he allow himself to slide into bed behind Simon, curling an arm around his waist and categorizing how the curves of the other man fit perfectly into place against him.
“Please Johnny, I thought-”
“Hush, mo ghràdh.” he slid his fingers downward and pressed them against Simon's entrance, testing the slick stretch, scissoring three fingers apart and rubbing against his prostate, encouraging it to soften and his walls to swell.
Simon moaned, grinding back.
“Lay still.” Soap thrilled when Simon followed his order.
“Johnny~” Simon whined, trembling as he tried to be good.
“Always good for me.” Johnny sucked at the larger man's earlobe. Under the covers, he took a hold of his own dick, shifting forward until he could rub himself gently over the slickness of Simon's ass.
He lined himself up with the gentle gape of Simons hole, letting out a long, calming breath as the tip of his dick met with the slickness. “Breathe for me now, be sweet.” He pressed forward, waiting until Simons hole gave a bit before pulling back, gently alternating pressure to encourage the sweet little bud to accept him.
Simon let out a gasp as the head of Johnny's dick finally popped inside of him with a wet 'pop', his rim snapping hungrily around the glands and pulsing, fluttering weekly in an attempt to suck the intrusion deeper.
Almost immediately, the worry that he had not stretched Simon enough was high in his throat alongside blinding pleasure. The press was incredibly tight. He knew that his dick was thick, and he always liked his boy to be gaping a bit to avoid any pain. But perhaps it hadn’t been enough?
Almost as if soothing his worries, Simon sighed; pressing further back against Johnny's dick and canting his hips to tempt him into ravaging the other man further.
Johnny shuddered and rolled his body against Simons, gently easing himself further into the tight, slick pleasure, inch by agonizing inch.
He lifted the covers to gaze between their bodies, watching in awe as his cock disappeared into the reddened, perfect pucker.
Johnny was transfixed by the taught, shiny width of the hungry little hole as it flexed around his shaft, swallowing an inch of the hard cock before it was pulled back out again.
Each gentle pulse of his hips drew a twitch and a whine from the desperate little creature being impaled; inexorably being changed by the girth easing its way into the tight grasp of his body, remaking him in the image of an object to be worshiped, to used and twined in permanent ecstasy.
When Johnny was finally seated, he shuddered, rubbing circles on Simon's stomach, tracing where he was tenderly misplacing the organs under the other man's skin.
“Johnny-”
“Clench.” His hand landed on Simon's ass, right over the mark that his own teeth had left not long ago.
The reaction was immediate, Simons body instinctively tensing around the length inside of him, sending his muscles into a spasm as he realized that the slight curve of Johnny's cock lay heavily against his prostate.
“See that? Every time you tense up, my cock will kiss your prostate, feel where I’m seated? Hm? Just here?” He pressed against Simons stomach, watching as the pressure against the pale skin pushed the curve of his dick into the spot that brought the other man the most pleasure.
He immediately gasped. Mouth falling open in a helpless pant as his back arched and he simultaneously attempted to press back onto the cock splitting him open and flinching away from the unending internal shockwave of sweet agony.
“None of that now.” Johnny hooked two fingers into Simons mouth, using them to tug his head until the scarred back was fully nestled against his chest. “I don’t want to feel you tighten at all, I want you relaxed, I want you gaping around me even while I stuff you full like this.” he released Simons jaw and trailed spit-slick fingers down his chest, plucking at a nipple to test his boys resolve before slipping lower, dancing over his hip until he could run his fingertips around where Simons hole was flexing around the root of his dick.
He pressed a thumb against their joining, kneading and pressing his thumb into the surrounding flesh, tugging until the hole went from red and taught to a pink and puffy ruin.
He chuckled at the sight, marveling at how slick from lube and his own precome could no longer be contained, glistening around the opening and dripping down to Simons large, perfect balls.
“What a good darling you are.” he nipped at Simons shoulder, running a hand over the huge, soft dick that lay between his lovers legs, gathering the clear fluid that dribbled persistently from large tip, slipping his pinky along the shaft to apply teasing pressure at the opening to Simons hole.
Simon twitched, causing a pulse of white-hot pressure to tighten around Jhonnys dick.
“I told you to relax, mo ghràdh, don’t tell me you’re being disobedient now?”
Simon shook his head immediately, his eyelashes fluttering low as fat tears slipped from beneath them.
“You were doing so well, keep being sweet for me now.” Johnny stroked a hand across the rise and fall of the pale chest, waiting until he was sure his boy had settled and the trembling had subsided. “That's it, be a good hole for me now.”
He slid his hand back down Simon's body, gripping onto the sweet bulges of his thick hips before dipping deeper, trailing a fingertip along the crease of a full thigh to the ultimate goal.
Just like the rest of him, Simon's soft dick was huge, the weeping slit at the top as lewd as the rest of the holes on his pretty boy.
Johnny gently curled his hand around Simon's dick, cradling the shaft and sealing the tight press of his thumb over the sloppy hole.
“That will stop you leaking, won’t it? Keep you from making such a mess of yourself?”
Simon nodded desperately, slipping his tongue out of his mouth again. “M-master, Johnny please! Give me something for my mouth, plug-plug me up!” a shuddering hiccup tore out of him as his begging made his diaphragm clench, massaging his swollen prostate against the dick inside of him.
Johnny hummed, simultaneously disappointed in the vice grip suddenly pulsing around his cock and pleased at how openly his boy was pleading for what he wanted.
“Hush.” As a punishment for the brief tensing of his body, Johnny released Simon's dick, instead sweeping his palm to settle just below Simon's belly button and pressing the heel of it into the firmness of his lower abdominals, grinding down with harsh circles until he could feel the application of pressure against his own sensitive flesh.
Simon opened his mouth, allowing it to gape loosely as the sensation of the cruel palm indirectly crushing his prostate sent a fluttering shiver through his body.
But to Johnny's delight, Simon did not tense; instead he stayed lax, limp and impaled like a pretty toy on display.
Johnny chuckled. “That’s my good boy.” He returned his hand to Simon's pretty cock, re-sealing it with his thumb to keep the constant dripping plugged safely inside.
Johnny slid his free hand around Simon's throat, pulling until the blonde curls were pillowed against his bicep.
He hooked his arm around the curve of the pale throat, sliding two fingers into Simon's still-gaping mouth.
The other man moaned, immediately latching onto the fingers and laving his tongue over the underside of the intrusion.
Johnny sighed in bliss, kissing along the ridge of Simon's shoulder as he lay, seated in worship inside of his lover in every way that he could be.
Simon hummed, practically a purr against his fingers.
“Hush mo ghràdh, sleep.”
The larger man murmured around the fingers, twitching weakly around Johnny's dick until he finally settled into a well deserved rest.
Johnny, however, stayed awake, stroking across the skin of the man he loved, trapped in sweet torment as he waited for the sun to rise so that he could finally, finally, tell Simon that he was loved in the morning light.