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“So like, if you went down Tesco’s on a Saturday morning, doing your weekly shop, all the old fellas and their wives and families and their weans around, you’d still be wearing that?” Soap asks, frowning.
“No.” Ghost says.
“No? You have a special one just for buying ready-meals?”
“I wear a neck gaiter.” He mimics pulling one up over his nose and mouth. Soap, to his credit, looks mildly impressed.
“Bloody hell, you’ve really got this down, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever take it off?”
“I’m not about to fucking waterboard myself when I shower, am I?”
“Mm. Not sure I could say for sure when it comes to you, L.T.” Soap shrugs, then laughs. “Tough as old boots. What colour’s your hair?”
“Purple,” Ghost says, deadpan. Soap spits questions freely, questions that nobody else has the balls or the desire to actually ask him.
“Fuck off.” Soap says, laughing. “I always know when you’re full of shit.”
And he does . Ghost wonders if Soap even recognises it as a skill, or whether it’s just an inevitable fact of life for him. He knows when to back down in his questioning, too, whether it’s because he knows that Ghost doesn’t want to give him a response, or because he recognises the possibility of being overheard. It’s just the two of them tonight, though, in a darkened rec room, football playing silently on one of the wall monitors. The bright green of the astroturf is reflected in the pale curve of Soap’s jawline. He isn’t watching the game, isn’t even pretending to - whilst Ghost faces the screen, Soap’s body is instead angled best so that he can look at Ghost himself, Soap’s legs crossed underneath him on the sofa.
“I’m bald.” Ghost says, truthfully. “But I think it’s blond.”
“I do hear that gentlemen prefer them.” Soap nods, then grins. He rubs a hand over his own dark hair. “Bleached my fucking hair when I was a teenager. Looked like bloody Billy Idol, thought I was hot shit.”
“Bet you looked a right twat.”
“When do I not?”
“You have your moments.” When he’s around Soap, it feels like he’s a machine coming to life, neurons firing around a great, dormant space. He hasn’t flirted with anyone since secondary school, a lingering memory of a boy on the rugby team with dark eyes and the beginning scruff of a beard against his cheeks, then a second, stronger memory of his father, fist raised.
“Cheers. I’m gonnae put you down as a reference on my next CV with a stellar endorsement like that.”
“If Asda in Inverness can find my number, I’ll apply for the fucking job myself.”
“Hah. Dickhead,” Soap says, but he’s smiling, eyes creased. “I’m not from Inverness though.”
“Where are you from?” Ghost asks, before he can stop himself. Soap doesn’t hesitate at the question, though, if anything he looks pleased to have been asked.
“I grew up near Glasgow. But the posh bit.”
“Didn’t know there was a posh bit of Glasgow,” Ghost confesses.
“Oh, believe me, growing up I wasn’t allowed to forget there was a posh bit of Glasgow,” Soap says with a wry smile. “What about you? Where are you from?”
Ghost swallows. He tries hard not to remember Manchester, usually. Not to remember being Simon fucking Riley. He’d forced his accent out, worked hard to divest himself of the flat vowels and the hard Gs, to erase any trace of himself from before. Soap must notice his hesitation, he glances at the television, his eyes flicking up to the score in the top corner, as though he’s not been looking at Ghost for the entire match.
“You think Aston Villa are g-”
“I’m from near Manchester. Originally.” Ghost says haltingly, the machine in his brain stuttering for a beat. He licks his lips. “I moved down south.” He’s not ready to admit to a put-on accent, even if at this point, it is really just his accent.
“Nice.” Soap looks approving. “Northerners are the only good English folk.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t say that. We have our fair share of cunts.” He says, and Soap must notice something in his tone, because he just nods with a grimace that looks sympathetic.
Ghost hates the way he likes that. It’s not pity, which he’s seen enough in his time, and it’s not quite empathy; it’s a kind of warmth that radiates out of Soap and settles over Ghost like ashes on the wind, blinding him, filling his nose and his mouth until he knows he’s going to choke on it. He can think of worse deaths. He tries to feign watching the match, eyes following the ball with mechanical, practised motions; beside him, Soap is blazing hot, hands curled loosely in his lap. In his periphery, Ghost sees the way that Soap turns back and forth between the silent football match and Ghost himself, unsubtle, like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing, but he doesn’t want to ask.
“Look. Johnny.” Ghost exhales. He watches someone go for a slide tackle, sending the other player crashing to the ground. He kind of knows how the guy feels, one minute you’re chasing a ball around not a care in the world, all of a sudden you’re arse over tit. “I don’t know if I’m reading this wrong. I don’t really… Do this kind of thing. But…”
“But?” Soap asks, his spine straightening at his name. He’s only looking at Ghost now, even whilst Ghost is staring straight forwards. The referee holds up a yellow card, charging over to the two men, hunched over on the pitch like ragdolls, whilst a manager screams, red-faced.
“But I’m wondering if maybe you fancy me.” Ghost says, the words thundering out like an avalanche, a landslide that only he can see. His ears are ringing, his pulse hot and thumping, and it feels like the silence lasts forever.
“I thought everybody fancied you.” Soap finally says, and sounds as though he’s in a genuine state of disbelief. Ghost laughs, despite himself.
“Just you, apparently.”
“Aw, pish. I bet that’s not true.” Soap frowns, then flushes a dark red, like his brain has finally caught up with his mouth. “Fuck. That’s everyone knowin’ my taste, I guess.” He looks a little embarrassed, glancing down at his hands. His fingers twist together, the knuckles tightening. “Sorry.”
“Let me get this straight, you’re apologising for fancying me? What kind of a bloody response is that?” Ghost frowns, unable to pretend to watch football any more. Soap laughs again, less unsure sounding this time. He likes the flares of indignation.
“L.T.?” Soap asks again, just as Ghost’s eyes are about to slide back to the TV screen. He’s looking at Ghost, but his hands are still twisted together, fingers pale and tightly braided in his lap. Ghost suddenly feels dimly aware that you cannot unbake a cake.
“What’s up, Johnny?”
“Do you fancy me , though?” Soap asks. He sounds like he’s putting on a confidence he doesn’t fully feel. “It’s, uh, it’s okay if not, but I just thought… While we’re here, you know? In for a penny, in for a pound. Be an idiot not to try my luck.”
“Push your fucking luck is more like it,” Ghost says, but something in his voice loosens Soap’s rigid posture. He hears himself, a human cake that can never be unbaked, say: “Yeah, Johnny. ‘Course I do.”
They end up in Soap's room, which is closer, but which Ghost's secretly thankful for regardless. His own room is minimalist, sterile, if he wants to be pejorative about it. It suddenly makes him self-conscious in a way he wouldn't have been minutes earlier. Ghost unlaces his boots whilst Soap locks the door behind them, waiting for Ghost go ahead as he does. Soap's room is warm, his bed unmade; he acknowledges the fact with a sheepish grin, eyes glancing from the crumpled duvet back to Ghost.
"Wasn't counting on a room inspection tonight."
"Might have to write you up," he remarks, pretending to swipe a finger along the edge of Soap's desk and peering at it. Soap grabs his hand as he's raising his index finger to frown at it; he pulls it down, laughing, but doesn't let go. Ghost tugs him in and Soap goes willingly, their hips bumping together; he cranes up and presses a kiss to the fabric of his mask right on the corner of Ghost's mouth.
"Fuck off, L.T."
Soap steps into the space in front of him, rocking up on the balls of his feet to kiss Ghost again, lips gentle against the fabric. He guides their hands to Ghost's hips, his stomach pressed up against Ghost's half-hard dick.
"You fancy letting me kiss you for real, or is that off the table?" Soap asks, his voice low and gravelly.
"Let me get warmed up a little bit first, eh? Been quite a while." He knows it's going to happen, though, he's not an idiot. The yearning in the pit of his stomach has been building for months now, like a tap running endlessly into a forgotten bath. He thinks of a water-swollen ceiling in a council house in Moss Side, staring up at the distended plaster looming way up high above him like a gathering stormcloud; the knowledge that someone will be home soon, that someone else - that he - is going to get a kicking.
"Understood." Soap nods, warm and solid in the present. He looks down, turning his attention to Ghost's belt, before glancing upwards for a signal of consent. Ghost nods, teeth clenched behind the mask. "Sit down," Soap says, nudging Ghost towards his bed, "I wanna kneel down."
Ghost's dick lurches, but he acquiesces, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. Pants. Another holdover from the North West, from the days as Simon, but one he could always put down to the Americans if called on it, something secret to hold onto. Soap's eager fingers join him at the elastic of his boxer shorts, tugging everything down to Ghost's knees in one swift movement. Ghost kicks them to one side with his boots and socks and settles, bare-assed on the edge of Soap's bed. It's somehow easier to be naked from the waist down than from the neck up, despite how ridiculous he knows it must seem. Soap doesn't mention it though, just stands over him for a few seconds, grinning.
"You got a big dick, L.T." He remarks, placing a warm hand on Ghost's bare thigh as he crouches down. He pushes Ghost's legs apart, gentle but insistent. "Gonna need some room to work."
Soap's breath is hot and damp against the crease of his thigh, whiskery cheek rasping against the length of Ghost's dick; Ghost feels himself shudder, tries to jostle his legs, but is met with Soap's firm grip, thumb pressed to his femoral artery. Ghost wonders if Soap can feel the thrumming of his heartbeat.
"You look good down there." Ghost says, trying to maintain a semblance of authority. It feels less convincing than normal.
"Aye, well let's hope I'm as good as I look, eh?" Soap asks, but he looks quietly confident. He presses his open mouth to the base of Ghost's cock, and makes a low sound when Ghost's hand prickles up the nape of his neck, like that’s what he’s been waiting for.
"You like that, Johnny?" It certainly seems like he does. Ghost tries to gain what little purchase he can in Soap's mohawk, tucking the strands between his fingers to tilt Soap's head up.
Soap's eyes are huge and dark, his pupils blown out.
"Like anything you wanna give me, L.T." Something surges in Ghost, a flood of unwarranted self-confidence from out of nowhere; Soap trusts him - wants him.
"Good boy. Open up." He eases a thumb into the corner of Soap's mouth, splitting his lips apart, running the pad of it along the sharp ridge of Soap's lower teeth. Soap grips the digit, but not hard enough to impede the motion; when Ghost pushes it in further, Soap’s tongue slides, flat and tensed, against the underside of his thumb. Ghost fists his own dick, prising Soap's jaws apart with his other hand like he's appraising a dog. Soap opens his mouth, lets Ghost manhandle his jaws, teeth bared. When Ghost pulls his fingers out of Soap's mouth, it remains slack and waiting. He's more obedient like this than he is on the field, Ghost thinks. It's more than that, though; now, Soap reacts not to his words, but to something else, something intangible. He remains still and pliant, waiting to follow Ghost's lead.
"Yeah. That's it," Ghost says. He brushes a hand along the curve of Soap's skull, pushing back the sweep of his mohawk. His dick throbs in his hand, pulsing like an alarm. Soap’s reacting to his cues, but he’s running out of road; he never really anticipated getting this far in the first place, like a dog chasing cars. He clears his throat. "What do you want?" Soap's mouth, still slack, twitches.
"Sir?" He looks put on the spot, suddenly anxious.
"You, Sergeant," Ghost says. "What do you want?" He's still holding his dick, though not actively, but doesn't miss the way Soap's eyes flick towards it for a fraction of a second. He waits.
"I, um…" He glances away. Ghost raises an eyebrow, which Soap seems to take personally. "Fuck L.T., I dunno. Like I said, I like anything you give me."
"That wasn't what I asked," Ghost reminds him. He feels like he’s watching himself from outside of his own body, hearing his voice saying, "did I ask you what I wanted?"
He sees himself rub the shell of Soap's ear with his thumb, watches Soap squirm at the motion. Whatever he’s doing, it feels distant and far away, but it’s clearly working for Soap.
"Ngh. No." Ghost's pretty sure he can see him grinding into his own hand through the fabric of his combats.
"No, I didn't." It’s obscene how easily the words slip from his mouth.
"I want you… I still want you to kiss me, sir." Soap hesitates, then looks away to the side like he's ashamed. It’s the last thing Ghost expects him to say, and the single thing he has priors with at least. It draws him back into his body, back into the feeling of Soap beneath his fingertips.
"Get up." Ghost says. Soap does, with trepidation; Ghost can tell that he's worried, that he thinks hasn't said the right thing. Ghost rolls his mask up to his nose, tries to summon a courage he's also not sure he possesses. Soap looks dazed, but he leans in as soon as he realises what's being offered to him. His mouth burns like a brand, urgent and desperate, his hands either side of Ghost's skull. He doesn't push any further with the mask, which Ghost is silently thankful for.
"Let me touch you, L.T. I'll make it good for you," Soap promises between his breathless kisses. "Please, please."
"Jesus, Soap." His demeanour slips, and from far away he hears his voice say, "Yeah. Be good to me. Do it."
Soap's hand is frantic, out of the gate like a greyhound at the track, his long fingers fisted into a hot, dense tunnel. Ghost hears himself grunt, like the wind's been punched out of him; his knees sag for a fraction of a second before he finds his centre of balance. Soap's mouth is hot and wet against one of the sprawling keloid scars on the underside of his jaw. Ghost doesn't know when, or how, to explain that he's never actually done this before, long past the point that he reasonably should have done.
Giving orders is one thing, a hard, calloused hand on his dick is another. He kisses Soap again, gaining a stuttering reprieve from Soap's indomitable rhythm.
"Soap, mate," he groans. Then again, a little sharper. "Soap. I just need a minute."
"Yes, sir." He doesn't remove his hand, but he at least stops moving it. His mouth, though, is still breathing hard against Ghost's jaw. When he presses a damp kiss to Ghost's pulsing jugular, Ghost knows he must feel the way his dick jerks.
Ghost surges into action, desperate to avoid the shame of coming too early. He manoeuvres Soap back onto the bed; he goes willingly, but the springs still bounce with the force of it. Soap looks breathless, but delighted, and that in itself fills Ghost with a level of bravado he can almost pretend to believe in. His mouth feels dry and grainy.
He crawls between Soap's thighs, which part at the touch of Ghost's palms, canting his hips up to let Ghost undo his belt. His legs tighten fractionally against Ghost's flanks to let him pull his cargo pants and boxer shorts down to the tops of his thighs. Soap's dick is hard and glossy against his stomach, his hands fisting in the duvet cover as he leans back on his forearms. He grins at Ghost, tilting his head.
The blood in Ghost's cranium pounds. He's not totally naive, he's seen the videos, he knows what a dick feels like in his hand, even if only one specific dick, from one specific angle. But it’s different, being here like this, being with Soap . He feels suddenly afraid: something he hasn’t felt in decades, curdled deep down in his stomach. The flirting, the authoritativeness had come easy when it had been on Soap to act - when it had bled across from work banter, to mate banter, to this banter. Now, though, in the face of inexperience, he can't do it. He feels sick and stupid, all theory and no practice. Ghost’s breathing quickens.
Soap’s grin falters, replaced with something that looks like concern. He props himself up higher on his elbows to get a better look at Ghost, who hunches himself over to avoid his gaze. He pulls the mask back down over his nose and mouth.
“You okay, L.T.?” Soap asks. Then, when he doesn’t get a response, extricates his legs, and rises to his knees, jostling Ghost’s shoulder gently with one hand. “Ghost?” He asks, quieter this time.
“I…” He wishes he could just say it . He knows Soap, trusts Soap. And yet still.
“You nervous?” Soap asks, his voice gentle and indecipherable. Ghost admires the heavy lifting being done by the word ‘nervous’. “It’s alright. Or if you… y’know, changed your mind, I’m not gonna be a dick about it or anythin’.”
“I didn’t,” Ghost says, haltingly. “Change my mind, I mean. I didn’t change my mind.”
“Just nervous, then?” Soap asks, but Ghost knows he doesn’t have to answer for him to know.
This isn't how it's supposed to be, and it definitely isn't what he thinks that Soap is supposed to want from him.
“I haven't…” He still can't bring himself to say it, not in its entirety. “Before.”
“Oh,” says Soap, then a little quieter when the full realisation hits, “oh.” Beneath his mask, Ghost can feel his face growing hot. With a dawning horror, he realises the flush extends beyond, down his chest and his shoulders, blossoming and blooming across his thighs and stomach, like he's bleeding out shame. He stays silent and grits his teeth. His erection is half-hard and flagging rapidly, sad and pathetic between his scarred thighs.
He burns with rage.
Pathetic.
It is pathetic. Always too afraid to act, to learn; always thought he was doing himself a favour, to ignore it. He jerks away from Soap's hand, still on his shoulder. His combats are on the floor, thankfully not inside-out; he leaves his boots, socks and underwear where they are, wrenching the pants up as quickly as he can.
Soap looks crestfallen in the brief moment that Ghost dares to glance over.
“L.T.,” he gets up, dazed, tugging at his belt as he tries to match Ghost's efficiency. “Fuck, L.T., fuckin’ wait!” He doesn't quite succeed, and Ghost hears a hissed fuck's sake before he slams the door shut behind him.
He makes it to his knees in front of the toilet in his cold, dark room and pushes his mask up just in time to avoid the stomachful of bile that forces its way up and out.
It had felt so easy, so within his remit, like he'd been buoyed on the seas of self-confidence by the thought that Soap wanted him , that it wouldn't matter somehow. Telling Soap what to do as though he has any fucking idea, making him think he's getting the legend, not the man. He retches again, bare toes curling on the tiles. There's a distant knocking, not loud enough to alert anyone else to anything, but loud enough that Ghost knows it's at his door. He doesn't say anything, but hears it ease open, then Soap's tentative footsteps.
“L.T.?” He sounds worried. “You in h- fuck me !” There's a clatter, and a loud thud as Soap clearly walks into the empty bookcase inside the doorway. “Ah, fuck, ow. Si, you in here?”
He must find the light switch, the fluorescent bulbs in the main bedroom flooding into the bathroom. Ghost wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and rolls his mask back down as Soap appears, silhouetted in the doorway. Ghost can't see his expression, can't see anything but the tension in Soap's body.
“Aw, thank fuck,” Soap says, suddenly crumpling down to his knees beside Ghost. He must be able to smell the vomit, and when the palm of his hand finds the span of Ghost's spine, he must be able to feel his shaking, sweaty palpitations. Soap's hand is cool and even, sweeping up and down in steady, soothing motions. He presses a kiss to the sweaty slice of skin at the nape of Ghost's neck without saying anything else.
Ghost leans back into the pressure, lets Soap rest his lips there in the darkness. He breathes out, but feels reasonably sure he's not about to throw up again.
“Johnny,” he murmurs. “Johnny I'm fuckin’ sorry.”
“What're you fuckin’ on about? I don't care about any of that shite. I just…” He hesitates, and Ghost catches sight of a split in Soap's eyebrow, oozing blood that looks almost black in the darkness.
“Fuckin’ hell, you really caught yourself.” He reaches up to swipe at it with his thumb, but Soap bats his hand away.
“Jesus Christ, Ghost. It's fuck all, leave it. I was worried about you, you fucking dickhead.” He touches the side of Ghost's face, palm gentle against the hot, prickling fabric of his mask.
“Sit down. Over there.” The Lieutenant Voice still works on Soap, apparently, who takes a seat on the edge of Ghost's bunk without further protest, hands in his lap. As he backs up into the light of the main room, Ghost can see properly where he's walked into the bookcase, a thin, bleeding cut on Soap's eyebrow at top-shelf height. Ghost grabs an antiseptic wipe from the first aid kit stashed in the bathroom cabinet, washes his hands, and flushes the toilet behind him. The vomit swirls and disappears.
Out in the bedroom, he manoeuvres Soap's head to one side, feels the way his body tenses, then relaxes at the contact.
“So you never… Before now, I me– Ah! Fuck!” He winces as Ghost presses the wipe against the cut, possibly a little too hard, his hand coming up automatically to clamp around Ghost's wrist. “Creepin’ Jesus. Warn a guy, would you? That smarts.”
“Come on, Sergeant, you've had enough first aid to know it hurts.” Ghost tilts Soap’s head to catch the light. It soothes him - not that Soap is hurt, it’s minor, nothing more than a scab and a bruise in the morning - but the simple fact that he knows what he's doing, that he can fall back into it so easily. It feels like solid ground beneath his feet. “No, though. I haven't. Just you, now.” He nudges himself slightly further back out into the open water, figures he owes Soap that at least.
“Jesus.” Soap is pliant in his hands, silent as Ghost smooths antiseptic over the narrow gash. He’s watching Ghost’s face with something like awe. “I should play the lotto.”
“What?” Briefly, Ghost considers that maybe he'd hit his head harder than Ghost thought, but then a grin creeps across Soap's face.
“On account of how I'm a lucky fuckin’ boy, apparently.” He pushes his head up against Ghost's fingers, changes the angle to guide them back into the stripe of hair bisecting his skull. Soap stares up at Ghost, hand still flexed around his wrist. “Just tell me what to do, L.T. Tell me what you want. Let me be the fucker who does it for ya.”
It makes Ghost’s dick stir again despite the salient taste of bile lingering in his mouth and the cooling sweat between his shoulder blades.
“Johnny, I’m not…” He swallows, but Soap just watches him, patient and waiting. “I’m not sure I can be what it is that you want.”
“All due respect? You’ve been doing a pretty blindin’ impression of it so far, in that case, sir.” Soap scoffs, like Ghost didn’t just flee to throw up .
“That’s different,” Ghost stiffens. “Work is different.”
“Is it? Didn’t seem like it. Seemed like you were enjoying it until you let yourself start thinkin’. Pretty fuckin’ good at it , too. Got me going, anyway.” Soap changes the angle of his face again, open mouth pressed to the heel of Ghost’s hand. He sounds muffled, but he keeps talking, letting Ghost feel the way his lips and teeth move against his palm. “Been saving yourself up for me, yeah? When did ordering me around stop feeling like work?”
He slides Ghost’s thumb into his mouth again, working the joint between his teeth. Soap’s tongue churns around the digit and Ghost groans, despite himself.
“Never,” he says, his voice raw. “Never felt like work, Johnny.”
“Tell me what to do, L.T.” Soap urges. Ghost swallows.
“Take your kit off. I need to brush my teeth.”
He spits out the mouthwash in the sink. The bathroom is still dark; better, he thinks, not to look at himself in the mirror right now. He hears the sounds of Soap getting undressed beyond the threshold, doesn’t let himself look, just lingers in the darkness listening for the sibilant sounds of clothing being shed, the gentle creak of his bedsprings, then silence. Somehow, he wishes he could just stay in this moment, knowing that Soap is there and wanting him.
“C’mere,” Soap says from outside; his voice sounds soft and light. “I know you’re just in there being a moody cunt.”
"I thought you liked me being a moody cunt,” Ghost says, closing the bathroom door behind him. Soap smiles, beaming like he did win the fucking lottery. He looks so ineffably, unremarkably handsome somehow, like he should be a sculpture, only with sunburnt forearms and a set of tan-lines shaped like a t-shirt.
“Aye,” he says, eyes crinkling. “I do. So come and do it over here instead.”
Ghost lets himself go, trusts his instincts as he climbs onto Soap, knees bracketing him like they’re sparring. He glances at Soap’s hands, pillowed behind his head, and Soap bares his teeth in a feral grin.
“Do it.” He says, half-goading, half-permissive. Ghost pins him by the wrists, and Soap writhes beneath him, fucking up into the crease of Ghost’s thigh, desperately trying to get purchase against the canvas of his combats. Through the fabric, Ghost can feel how hard he is.
He eases his mask up over his nose with his free hand, leaning in to kiss Soap, who tries to surge up against his grip to meet him. Ghost holds him down, holding his face just out of reach to watch the way that Soap tries to arch and squirm to reach him.
“C’mon,” Soap’s voice is plaintive. Ghost can feel his breath. “Please. Please .”
“Tell me what else you like,” Ghost says. “And maybe I’ll kiss you again.” Soap’s hands flex above the cage of Ghost’s fingers.
“Put your weight down,” he croaks. “On my dick. Please.” Ghost settles himself more firmly, and is rewarded with a low groan. He kisses Soap, who whimpers and pushes himself more firmly up against the bulk of Ghost’s balls and his ass, rocking back and forth. Ghost presses down harder, impeding the crests of Soap’s now feeble, limited thrusts. “Fuck, just like that. Don’t stop.” He grinds desperately into Ghost, the wrists beneath Ghost’s palm shifting and twisting.
“Jesus, Johnny. You’re like a fucking dog in heat.”
“Only for you, sir.” Then, after a second, “play with my tits. I like that.” Ghost traces his free hand down the swell of Soap’s chest, lingering on the knot of a broken collarbone, never healed properly. He presses it experimentally, and Soap murmurs low in his throat.
“Fuck,” Soap says, but doesn’t sound upset. “Fuckin hurts, sir. Do it again.” Ghost presses the heel of his hand into it, a little harder, like Soap’s a rookie that he’s trying to bring down a peg or two. Soap groans, his dick jerking against the juncture of Ghost’s thigh.
“Know what kind of dog you are at least,” Ghost grunts, letting himself move further down Soap’s chest. He must shave it sometimes, the hair coarse and short, like he’s not done it for a while; it bristles against Ghost’s palm. “Fuckin’ sick puppy.”
“Yeah,” Soap agrees. Then again, when Ghost leans down to latch onto a nipple, “fuck yeah.”
“If I let your wrists go, are you gonna be a good boy and leave them there?” Ghost glances up from Soap’s chest. Soap stares down at him, then nods, arms stilling. Ghost gives him a few seconds, then slithers further down, so Soap’s dick is pressed up against his stomach. When he tugs his shirt up to let it rest against his bare abdominal muscles, Soap lets out a noise that sounds almost like a sob. “Good.” He rears up, pressing down so that Soap can’t even push up against him, and rolls Soap’s nipples between his forefingers and thumbs. The other man jerks desperately, hands wrapping around the bars of the headboard. His grip is white-knuckle, but his hands stay above his head.
“Necessity is the mother of invention, huh?” Ghost asks, impressed. He’s not sure that Soap understands him; if anything, Soap looks concerned that he’s voided his agreement. Still, he doesn’t move. “Good lateral thinking. Using the environment to your advantage. Skirting just close enough to the rules that you get away with it. It’s you all fucking over, isn’t it, sergeant?” Soap relaxes at that. He’s right, when Ghost isn’t thinking about it, it comes so naturally, so easily.
“I’ll take that as a compliment, sir.” Unable to push back against Ghost’s weight, Soap’s reduced to wriggling his pelvis in desperate little circles, hip bones digging into the flesh of Ghost’s thigh.
“It was,” he says, and kisses Soap. “You’re a clever boy.”
“Thank you, sir,” Soap says, breathless and straining. Ghost slides back along Soap’s thighs, committed to the do-over; Soap’s dick springs free, hot with blood against his neatly trimmed pubic hair, bracketed by Ghost’s braced knees.
“Tell me if it’s wrong,” Ghost says, with a flickering, lingering pang of humiliation, and wraps a hand around Soap’s dick. It’s longer and slimmer than his own, gently tapered to the grateful familiarity of Soap’s foreskin; when Ghost touches it, Soap’s body pulses with desperate tension. Ghost catches a nipple in his teeth, bites down just hard enough that Soap thumps his head back against the mattress, groaning.
“Fuck yeah. Fuck, please, L.T.” He thrusts up into the tensed hollow of Ghost’s fist, urging Ghost to move with him. Ghost’s own dick is pressed up against pants and his forearm, thrusting ineffectually against it like a middleman, a barrier of separation between Soap’s cock and his. Ghost slides probing fingers into Soap’s open mouth, feels the way Soap’s cheeks hollow around them, his tongue slipping between the digits; the rhythm of Soap’s hips quickens, and Ghost risks a firmer squeeze.
“Jesus-!” Soap manages around Ghost’s fingers. Ghost pumps his dick, hard and relentless. “Oh fuck. Ghost. Ghost. Simon- fuck, I’m gonnae come. Please. Please, I’m gonna-”
Soap's knees clench so hard that they jerk up into Ghost's kidneys. He lets out a yelp of surprise, fist slipping out of sync with Soap's dick, bracing a hand on the wall to avoid crushing Soap entirely. The front of his t-shirt is soaked through, Soap's dick soft and slippery between them.
“Shit, shit, sorry L.T.” Soap's hands are on either side of his head, his face suddenly close-up and concerned. “Aw, shit, Simon. I'm sorry, are you okay?”
It barely hurts, or barely registers as doing. All he can focus on is the wetness of Soap's limp cock, the way his fingers feel against his face. The way they might actually feel against his face if he lets them.
“Take the mask off, Johnny. Then put your hands back where I told you.” He says. He reaches for his zip, his dick pressing, straining against its plastic teeth. Soap rolls the balaclava up over the ear with its missing chunk of cartilage, the wonky cheekbone on one side, and the burn scars that crawl up the left hand side of Ghost’s face. The ear's missing entirely on that side, a gnarled impression of one, like a child's drawing. Soap touches the scar gently with sprawled fingers as he tugs the mask the rest of the way off.
“There he is,” Soap says, and kisses Ghost, grinning. The smile stays, even as Soap lies back hands above his head, like he's just drinking in the moment.
Ghost takes out his dick, rising up on his knees. He's too far-gone to do anything but fuck up into his fist, hips snapping back and forth like they're on rails. He can hear how loud his breathing is out in the open, the slick, frantic sound of skin-on-skin. Everything's so much without the mask, an unrestricted possibility that's almost painfully overwhelming. He focuses, instead, on Soap's voice, calm and focused without the edge of desperation.
“Yeah,” he says, fixated only on Ghost's face. He spares a glance for his cock, and makes some vague noise of approval, but it's clear what's the main event. “Gonna wank myself blind thinking about this, L.T., pure fuckin’ magic you are. Could do this forever, do whatever you asked. My fuckin Ghost.”
He says it with such affection, that Ghost's balls barely have time to clench a warning before he's coming so hard that all he can hear is the pounding of blood in his eardrums. It feels like he's run miles, like he's been awake for days, vision swarming and fuzzing. In amongst the static, he sees Soap wipe his face with a grin, probing the splattered come with his tongue. Ghost braces himself with a hand against the wall.
“Don't think I didn't see you move your hand,” He tells Soap, breathless, looking down at the crown of his head.
“Ah, fuck off,” Soap laughs, glancing up from below him. “Put it on my tab.”
Ghost lets himself collapse down beside Soap, who seems to have forgotten, whether deliberately or not, that this isn't his room.
“Here.” He pulls his stained t-shirt off over his head and offers it to Soap, who scrubs the dry side across his face, then his stomach before offering it back. Ghost wipes himself off, and throws it towards the laundry basket, groping around for his mask. He pulls it back on, but leaves his nose and mouth free whilst his breathing evens out.
“That was fuckin’ killer. Jesus, I thought I was gonnae die at the end there.” Soap exhales, making room for Ghost to lie on his side against him. “You all right?” He props himself up slightly to look at Ghost.
“Yeah. I'm cracking, Johnny,” he says with a grin. When Ghost smiles, Soap traces his lips with a thumb, over the gnarled scar tissue bisecting them. Ghost lets him, easing his jaws open for Soap so he can run the calloused digit along the jagged line of his teeth with a thoughtful reverence. “My old man hit me in the face with a bottle when I was sixteen,” Ghost offers when Soap finally pulls back. “That's why my mouth is…” Surgery. Stitches. Shattered teeth and a mouthful of blood. The frantic urge not to get the police involved.
“Can't imagine a better mouth, sir.” Soap cuts the thought off at the knees, his hand resting on Ghost's cheek; Ghost can see the beginnings of crow's feet, smile lines, at the corners of Soap's eyes.
“Hm. Have to remind you of that the next time you're answering back.” It's easy, so easy to fall into, so easy to drown if he'd let himself.
“You're welcome to try,” Soap says with a grin, and means it.
“Don't tempt me.” Ghost places his head on the pillow beside Soap's, tentative, like he's the interloper.
Soap's burrowing down now, half under the blanket, and Ghost has neither the heart nor the balls to send him back to his own room. He resigns himself to a cold night and crick in the neck, does his best to settle against Soap's loose, sleepy limbs.
“Hey, L.T.?” He asks, long after Ghost assumes he’s already asleep.
“What’s up?” Soap drapes a hand across Ghost’s stomach, twisting onto his side to make more room for him on the narrow mattress; he even half-drapes the duvet over Ghost’s ass. It’s ineffectual, but appreciated.
“Cheers."