Chapter Text
Three hundred thirty seven miles. Two left, his GPS said.
A newly emptied cigarette pack was tossed on top the other trash strewn about the passenger seat, threatening to fall over onto the floor with every abrupt turn. An empty liquor bottle clanked against the full one beside it, rolling over a half-eaten petrol station sandwich when Ghost came to a jerky stop at a stoplight.
It was lucky he even registered the bright red warning–a fucking miracle that he hadn't been pulled over. A good thing he hadn’t, too, because he was breaking about ten laws, at least, and his hands ached for violence if anyone put themselves between him and his end goal.
Stomach acid scalded its way up his esophagus, and whisky settled deep in his limbs, making his usually sharp senses dull and heavy. The intoxication did nothing for his furious thoughts, though.
Did nothing for how fast he was driving, or how his anxious fist was clenching and unclenching around his steering wheel. One long, forceful inhale burned through half the cigarette hanging from his dry, dehydrated lips, the taste and smell so thoroughly trapping him in his memories.
Blue eyes looking up at him, busy hands messing with his rifle strap, tightening the nylon across his chest. “Do ye like it tight?”
‘Yeah,’ he almost said. ‘Yeah, I like it real fuckin’ tight.’
“Needs a little more give, honestly,” was what he actually said around his smoke, and he brushed Soap’s hand away, his touch lingering far longer than he would’ve liked it to. “Like this,” Ghost adjusted the tension that was just threatening to dig into his pec through his tac vest so it was loose enough to maneuver his rifle around to his front, and Johnny watched–those fucking wide, painted eyes took every second in, like he was cataloguing for next time; next time he’d outfit his lieutenant for combat–make himself invaluable to the cause.
Johnny knelt down, then, in front of him, utility belt in hand, ready to pull it around Ghost’s waist.
That was his limit, though. The limit of what he could take before he was selfishly hard and selfishly stupid.
Before he could see himself ordering Soap about, taking advantage.
“Open my zip, sergeant,” he’d insist.
“That’s right, now take my prick out, need a little relief before we go out there…” he’d command.
Part of him knew Soap would do it. Ghost could see the outcome–Soap with his dick down his throat, taking every last drop with that determination that always overcame him when he was performing an essential duty.
Would he enjoy it? Ghost wanted to think he would. But most likely he’d just grin and bear it, like all the other useless, bullshit things the SAS demanded and took from him.
Bled dry by his job and his commanding officer.
“Alright, Lt.?”
Ghost composed himself, drew forth some stoicism from the years and years of training beaten into him. “Yeah, Johnny. Alright. You don’t have to do that, lad,” he took the edge of the utility belt in hand, but Soap was steadfast, tugged it away, back into his control.
“I’ve got this, sir.” Soap shuffled closer on his knees, fastened the substantial weight of the belt evenly around his hips, and Ghost had to concentrate really hard to make sure nothing out of sorts happened in his fucking jeans.
The utmost attention Johnny put into Ghost’s gear prep–checking every snap, every buckle, running his fingers over each and every seam to make sure nothing was coming undone, nothing was loose or beyond repair–Ghost found himself deeply turned on, eyes wide, slightly crazed for his sergeant’s perfect care.
“There, you’re sorted, ‘cept for your rounds.”
Soap snatched the cigarette from Ghost’s mouth so he could roll his mask down and tuck it into the neck of his shirt, zip up his jacket’s collar. He claimed the smoke between his own lips, sucked the nicotine into his own lungs, and Ghost couldn’t help but think of the indirect contact. Mouths tasting the same filter, the same paper; Soap tasting his spit. Soap’s face so close to his–both of them sharing the same few breaths of air for a moment that Ghost didn’t want to end.
It’d felt so intimate that Ghost had to turn his eyes away.
He tried not to think about that too much. But that was his problem, wasn’t it? Thinking about it too much was why he’d driven five hours fueled by alcoholic mania just to see Soap again.
He wasn't even sure he'd have a fucking job when he returned, wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be court-martialed on sight, not with the way he’d left. But then, he didn’t really care, did he? Didn’t really know if he’d return, anyway. Didn’t know if he’d survive the rejection he feared was waiting for him at 91 Broughton Street, flat number 609.
He could see the exact typeface of the address neatly printed under Soap’s given name in the file he’d nicked from one of Price’s locked cabinets. The profile picture paperclipped to the manila folder–he stole that, foolishly, tucked it safely away in his shirt pocket.
Soap’s family details, his birth date, his national insurance number were all mentally stored within seconds of a quick scan before he locked the damning evidence of his obsession back up.
The cloying smell of Price’s cigars interrupted his thoughts, as did the sound of the door closing. He hadn’t even heard it open–so entrenched in his own fantasy, in his own need. Envisioning going to Johnny’s home, up to Johnny’s front door, knocking, and–
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Price’s footsteps were always so heavy on the floor of his office; he rarely favored subtlety or stealth as an advantage on his home turf. He didn’t have much use for either on base, where the men were all under his boot.
Simon leaned back against the cabinet he was just shamelessly breaking into, crossing his arms over his chest, “Need leave, sir. Two days,” his voice surprisingly smooth, his eyes following Price to his chair, just a couple steps away from the toes of Simon’s shoes.
“What for?”
Fuck, of course Price wasn’t going to make it easy. Of course he was going to get in the way. Insert himself into every aspect of Ghost’s existence just to prove he could. “What for’s...none of your concern.”
“Timing’s bullshit. You think I don’t know what this is about?”
“Just need the bloody leave. I don’t ask for all that muc–”
“Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it?” Price was unburdening himself of his hat, then his belt.
Simon grit his teeth.
“ Listen to me , ya miserable old cunt, you’re going to sign the fucking paper,” Simon’s hands found the surface of Price’s desk, fingers splaying out, body hunching over it in a display of dominance, meant to intimidate.
The stance had no effect. Price just stared right back at him, infuriatingly casual.
The wheels on Price’s chair made that annoying loud squeal they always did as he rolled backward so Simon could see the hand already snug against his crotch over his camo, fingers tugging at his zip, “Yeah, Simon? You goin’ to convince me, then?”
Simon knew what would happen if he didn’t comply. His knees hit the stained, worn old carpet on autopilot. He wasn’t going to get his leave if he didn’t take the cock that was being freed from Price’s briefs, the waistband tucked underneath his sack, just out the way, enough so he could be serviced.
He might not live through the night if he didn’t do what he was told.
Price was sniffling an awful lot, rubbing at his flared, swollen-looking nostrils. Definitely high as a damn kite. Definitely not a good time to deny him his daily blowjob. Something Simon used to enjoy, truthfully, having Price nestled so deep in his throat, occupying so much of his physical and mental space that he couldn’t fathom any of his internal bullshit. But now, all Simon could think of was that bright smile, that sunshine beauty in the photo hidden in his lapel.
All he could think of was the way Soap had taken his rifle from him when it was sticking, parsed out the problem in fifty seconds flat. The way Soap chided him for not taking his dirty laundry to the goddamn quartermaster. For skipping lunch.
Soap giving in under him, letting him…touch. Taste. Claim what was rightfully his.
He’d do what he needed to do for Price. And that was it. Enjoying this simple, assigned task he’d had for years under his captain was a thing of the past, another thing stolen from him when Soap crossed the space between them on that tarmac.
He pushed his mask up a bit, revealing his lips drawn in a thin, tight line, his jaw freshly shaved, cut in a couple spots from the sloppy, rushed job he’d done of it.
Price didn’t waste any time lowering Ghost’s head with a rough tug, and Ghost didn’t waste any time getting Price snug in his mouth, warm and hard and ready. He licked the fat vein at the root of Price’s girth, like he always did, knowing how it’d get him to moan, like it always did.
“Ah, fuck–that’s right. Your fuckin’ mouth .” There was an attempt to lift his mask up more. Price liked to see his face, when he was doing this, but Simon couldn’t risk him picking up on the indifference, on how he was drifting off, wondering what Soap’s cock looked like. What it would feel like in hand.
What sounds he could get out of him.
Price always knew, somehow, knew when he was distracted, knew how to get his attention, push his fucking buttons. His biggest weaknesses.
“Maybe we could share MacTavish, huh? Think he’ll take my dick as good as you do? You could bring him to my office for a little meeting…He trusts you, now, right?”
Teeth dug in, then, biting around the head of Price’s cock so hard that he thought he might’ve drawn blood along with a strangled, distressed “Jesus fuck ,” from Price. Couldn’t tell, because the way Price grabbed his hair immediately, yanked his neck back with all the deadly force he had in his grip–Simon thought he was about to die, thought ‘fuck’ before he just hurt, all the muscles in his neck burning, spasming from the whiplash.
His mouth hanging open above the tip of Price’s prick, drool on his chin and precome on his breath as he tried not to give into the urge to make pained noises.
Didn’t want to give Price the satisfaction.
“The bloody hell , Simon?” Price’s voice was venom from that broad, heaving chest, his blue eyes were stone cold ice, staring down at Simon. Not much scared Simon. Not much at all, aside from his infatuation with Soap and the rage of his captain. This rage, the rage he’d been on the receiving end of more times than he could count.
He was twisting Price’s wrist off him before he could think straight, though, drawing his knife from its holster, jabbing it straight up until it tore at the tender flesh of Price’s chin, leaving an oozing laceration. “Don’t touch him. Ever,” he growled, knife to soft throat.
Price laughed, the sound amused, so full of humor. Like Simon’s threats were just a joke. Like he hadn’t just had his prick almost bitten clean off. “So…what? You gunna get in the way of our little squad initiation, then? It was your idea, lieutenant.”
“Just leave him the fuck alone.”
“Fuck’s sake, Simon, he’s just some FNG slut. Your words, not mine.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ghost pressed the knife closer to Price’s jugular, waited for him to give up, to let off. Hoped that he did because Ghost wasn’t going to just roll over on this one.
Price seemed willing to calm down. The tension between them eased.
Letting his guard down was stupid, though. The sucker punch to the back of his neck once he’d turned to go crippled him, leaving him grasping for the door handle, almost back down on his knees.
“You’re alive because of me. Breathe because of me . Got that promotion because of me, yeah?” Price reached down and grabbed at his chin, tugged him off the ground and back into his chest. “You’d do well to remember all that, boy.”
Ghost was tired. Tired of taking it and taking it. Ghost had somewhere to be. Somewhere up north.
Their fight was vicious. Ghost was savage when he was angry. When he was driven by rage and hate and lust and some other emotion he wouldn’t dare name.
He left Price half broken.
“You’re no good for him, Simon.” One last cheap shot at him, for the road.
“I know.”
Yeah, he was well aware.
The worst possible suitor for Soap’s affection. That was him.
Black-eyed and split-lipped, pulling up to invade Soap’s personal space against all good sense, no invitation, no warning.
Yeah…that was him.
The parking spot wasn’t terribly inconspicuous, but he wasn’t exactly thinking tactics. Wasn’t thinking at all, really, beyond the terrible ache in his trousers and his chest. The only clear image that seemed to reach through the haze of all the liquor he’d guzzled on the way to Edinburgh was his reverie of Soap’s doorway. Soap in his doorway, looking so sweet and soft and his hands pulling Soap’s soft, sweet body against his body, overwhelming him, kissing him.
Making damn sure the little Scottish prick knew what he’d been doing to him all this time.
What he’d done, fuck. Ghost was ruined. A fucking shell of who he was before he’d met Soap. A pitiful, desperate sod that should’ve spared the world and put a bullet in his own skull. But he wasn’t even man enough to pull that off, try as he might’ve–the cold steel pressed between his lips, the tension on the trigger aborted before he could taste the same fate he’d effortlessly bestowed on so many others.
He wished he could just do it, just empty the magazine into his brain instead of opening his fly and taking his hard cock out, about to touch himself again to relieve the ungodly need that tightened his groin every time he saw Soap. Every time he thought about him.
He couldn’t do it, though; he could only pray that he didn’t walk down the hallway, insane in the middle of the night, and shoot Soap fucking dead for how badly he’d crawled under his skin. He could only come hard with Soap’s name on his lips and his 9 mil still clutched in his shaking, unoccupied hand.
Too addicted to his own self-loathing, too self-absorbed to manage killing himself properly.
So he was here. He was in bloody Scotland, about to make the biggest mistake of his life.
He was here , somehow still alive–not crashed on the side of the motorway somewhere–still taking shallow, labored breaths, limbs cramping and body sweaty under his dark layers from the non-stop drive. He was crushing his fag against his dash, leaving yet another melted, rust colored ring in the white vinyl, tossing the butt out his rolled-down window as rain started to mist the air, wetting his leather glove.
He looked out his truck’s cracked front view, through the blur of water droplets picking up rhythm, beating down on the plexiglass, looked up at the enormous row of flats across the street, lit by the street lamps that were all switching on under the darkening sky.
91 Broughton Street. Flat number 609.
The neighborhood was real nice. A far cry from the rundown shithole his residence was in. Not that he had to live there–he just didn’t need the place for anything more than the occasional utility of an off duty fuck or a convenient place to crash when he was between AD and his PMC obligations.
This, this was fucking fancy , though. Uppity as hell, truth be told, and he scoffed to himself, spit all the thick whisky and nicotine saliva coating the inside of his mouth into an old styrofoam cup still hanging onto its sad life in his center console.
Disgusting was an understatement for his physical state. He tried to mitigate it a little with a stray tee from his truck’s floorboards, taken to his neck under his balaclava and his pits under his jacket, but that small bit of BO was the least of his problems. He tossed the shirt, looked up into the rearview mirror, catching sight of the tired hazel eyes he always tried to avoid. Old, now. Too old. Glazed over, stupid drunk. Hardened. Lines etched into the corners of them, showing his age. Grey hairs flecking his brows, prominent in the small bit of hair peeking out from the edge of his mask.
He nearly ripped the mirror off its hinge, he shoved it so far to the side, so he couldn’t look at himself anymore.
Was about to get out the truck when he spotted a light flicker on in one of the windows across the street, instinct forcing him to assess the movement.
Like he was on an op instead of pathetically stalking Soap.
Soap, who materialized in his line of sight, who was tugging at the windowpane to crack it and let the night air in. Unmistakable with his messy mohawk, untrimmed, untamed from his time on leave.
And then, more movement. Movement that wasn’t Soap.
Ghost’s hand whipped behind himself and snatched up his chimera from where it was laying, right out in the open on the backseat, and aimed it, aimed it point blank at the stranger in Soap’s space, flipped on his wipers to clear the rain away.
When he had unobstructed eyes on the room through his scope, he realized what he was looking at, though, with a twist of nausea in his gut. Soap, all those miles of fucking delicious skin bared. Nude and flawless. And the stranger wasn’t a stranger, judging from the way Johnny was touching her, rubbing his thumbs over her belly, down to the v right above her smooth, hairless pussy.
Tiny fucking thing, so lovely and small. Ghost could crush her delicate windpipe in one hand, if he wanted to.
Ghost’s jaw clenched, and he made some sort of animal noise from his gut. Soap was supposed to be alone. He was supposed to be alone and waiting, waiting for Ghost to come to him.
But he was pushing his fingers into long, blonde hair, tipping her head back for his mouth, exposing her neck, her collarbone.
Her breasts were so full, heavy-looking, big enough to overwhelm Johnny’s hands cupping around them, squeezing, perky nipples getting tight for his tongue swiping at them. Fuck, Soap was hungry, just as hungry as Ghost always imagined him, lapping and pulling all that tender, soft flesh into his open mouth.
Ghost’s legs were involuntarily parting, thinking about that mouth on him, instead. Sucking at him instead, his pink little tongue teasing the slit of his cockhead the way it was teasing and wetting that lucky bitch’s tits.
They must’ve been at this for a while already. Soap’s hand came away from her cunt wet. Index and middle fingers shiny with it.
Ghost looked away, had to breathe, steady himself and the pounding of his heart in his chest so he could still aim, so he could see, even though he shouldn’t have kept watching.
He didn’t know why the fuck he kept watching.
Watching them crawl onto the bed, Soap leaning back on his elbows. Fucking lewdly spreading out, letting her get between his muscled thighs. And the fucking sight of him naked–Ghost had to swallow down the arousal that was threatening to choke him, filling his dick up.
Soap was more perfect than he imagined, lean and taught, meticulously crafted by all his grueling hours at the gym. Hairy, but kept neat. Taken care of.
And Johnny was hard, so hard, and she was touching his hardness, touching it how Ghost wanted to touch it, massaging his foreskin over the leaking tip of him, forcing his head to roll back with how much he loved the sensation.
Her dainty little hand slipped under his balls, between his ass cheeks, and he was shaking his head, holding her wrist, trying to make her stop. He looked kinda pissed for a moment , was scooting away from the touch, but whatever she was saying, it must’ve soothed him.
Soothed him enough to open up his legs back up, wide, and Ghost’s entire body tensed up. His sick erection twitched in his pants, and his breath came harsh through his nose, so harsh it was fogging up his scope some.
She was going to finger him. Christ. Sunk those fingers right into his arse, penetrated him. Penetrated what was Ghost’s to penetrate.
Soap looked embarrassed, couldn’t make eye contact with her as he settled into the feeling. And then he started pushing down into it, when he got used to it, and Ghost was fucking insane. Insane with wondering how many times they’d done this . How many people might’ve felt Johnny’s insides that way.
Owned him like that.
There wasn’t any way the fucking bitch could own his Johnny–own him the way Ghost did, by rank and right. His subordinate. His sergeant. She couldn’t stuff him properly with cock, mark him with her body, fill him all the way up like Ghost could.
Would.
She was smiling so sweetly, so pleased with herself as she watched Soap’s face, as Ghost watched Soap get all flushed from the intrusion, the fingers spreading him open. Thinking she was really fuckin’ something , getting her soldier all dirty worked up like that. Treating him right. Making his cock drool and jerk on his toned stomach.
Thinkin’ no one could make him feel better than she could.
Presumptuous whore.
God, he could stop this. He could do it. Shoot her right in her pretty little face, watch her blood splatter all over Johnny’s naked body. He’d clean Johnny up, he’d hold him, tell him he was so fucking sorry, but he had to. So they could be together.
I did it all for you, he could feel his lips form the slurred words under his breath.
Soap’s perfect body was so tense with how much he liked having those fingers in him, from the full, feminine lips that were working the head of his cock.
The jealous heat that curled through Ghost was dangerous. His finger tugged at the trigger a little as his head emptied of everything but bitterness and anger and desperation.
I’ll give you something you can really enjoy, Johnny, he thought. Something fucking big and satisfying. Better than her pathetic fingering.
She could never. Never, ever.
Christ, Soap was going to fuck her on her back. Face to face. Couldn’t even allow Ghost to comfort himself with the thought of this being something impersonal, rough, and quick.
They were kissing, all open-mouthed tongue, and Soap was steadying her fit little waist with his hands so he could push himself into her warm, wet pussy. Must’ve been so tight, felt so good, ‘cos Johnny’s eyebrows furrowed, lips went slack, parted around some words Ghost couldn’t hear.
Ghost’s crosshair stroked her calves, wrapped about Soap’s trim waist, barely able to fit all the way around him as his dick slid deep inside her, over and over. And she was enjoyin' it–he could tell by the blissed out look on her face. By the way she was grasping Soap's neck, fingernails digging little half moons into his golden skin.
Ghost pressed a hand against the head of his cock through his jeans, eyes shutting and breath trembling at the sensitivity, and fuck, he should’ve just had a sad wank in his goddamn truck and tucked tail–should’ve driven off. Ran.
But he didn’t.
He watched, helplessly, watched Soap fuck her until he came. And when he came, she did, too. He couldn’t hear them, but it looked loud.
Yeah, they’d done this plenty. This wasn’t some random, one-off lay.
This was practiced. They knew each other’s bodies well.
Ghost could feel the way that knowledge was making him shake with silent, seething rage that he couldn’t walk himself back from.
He wanted to be up there. Wanted to hold the whore down and shove his face in her dripping cunt, smell the remnants of Soap’s crotch sweat on hers. Lick up all the precious, leaking come from where it was going to bloody fucking waste on some civvie whore’s thighs.
He couldn’t calm himself.
Everything in that bedroom–Ghost wanted it. Wanted it for his , even though he'd have no idea what to do with it if he somehow managed to grasp it in the greedy palm of his hand.
Soap needed to understand . He needed to understand what Ghost was going through , and that bitch–well, she needed to die, maybe. He wasn’t quite sure, just yet. He just knew she wasn’t going to get in between them, if she tried.
He just knew he needed to do something .
Something besides sitting uselessly in his truck.
He flicked the cap off the whisky bottle in his cup holder, brought it to his lips to take another full-throated swig, which became two. Which became half the bottle until his vision was a bit fuzzy.
Then he was pulling his loaded rifle onto his back and slamming the door of his truck closed, heading out into the rain.
Heading to the stairwell. To flat number 609.