Work Text:
Soap stares down at his sketchbook, pencil tapping idly on the page as he tries to find inspiration. He’s already drawn a rough sketch of his surroundings; the rec room, a silly cartoony self portrait, a study of his favorite rifle, and Gaz.
Gaz is sitting on the couch next to him. He posed for him a while ago, always as happy to be drawn as Soap is to draw him. He’s a pretty man, makes a good model.
But now he’s met with another empty page. Blank pages are daunting. Quietly threatening. No, that’s not dramatic- a blank page is like… Perfection waiting to be fucked up. The second an unworthy doodle is carved into the paper, a tree has died for nothing!
…Maybe it’s a tad bit over the top, fine. But he seriously feels guilty when he’s wasted a page.
Which is why he perks up when his very favorite subject walks into the rec room! A page can never, ever be wasted when Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley is gracing it. It’s a gift to the paper, even.
“Evenin,’ LT.” Soap gives the man a broad smile as the man drops into his usual squeaky recliner, earning a nod in response.
“Hrmm.”
“Mind if I draw ye?” Sometimes he says no, sometimes he shrugs. A shrug means ‘please don’t, but I won’t verbally complain if you do.’ If Ghost is in a very particular, very rare mood, he may even strike a simple pose unprompted. It’s only happened twice, though, and not with someone nearby.
“Mmm…”
A hum means ‘sure, why not.’ So Soap grips his pencil with renewed vigor and sets to work. He’s sketched out Ghost’s form so many times that it only takes him seconds now, confident lines coming together like they’re meant to be, which they are.
Half of his sketchbook, so far, is Simon. Three fourths of his old one is Simon. The tail end of his old old one is Ghost.
His muse. The love of his life.
He’s locked in - something that has unironically joined his everyday vocab thanks to a rookie - which is why he doesn’t immediately realize that he’s had to redraw Ghost’s hand three times. First, it was propping up his chin. Then it was half under his mask. Now it’s curled into a fist, pressing against his jaw.
Johnny squints. Hmm. Ghost isn’t normally a fidget, especially if he knows he’s being drawn. The man is like a statue when he wants to be.
He watches his hand shift again, thumb kneading along the right side of his jaw. Blond eyelashes flutter. Relief or pain or both…
Soap leans over the arm of the couch. “Ye alright?”
“Hm?” Simon grunts, fixing his posture. He eyes him uncomprehendingly for several seconds. “Oh… ‘m fine. Wisdom tooth acting up.”
“Ye never had ‘em oot?” Soap’s surprised. He had all four of his yanked the fuck out the moment he was old enough, thanks to his da’s gratuitously exaggerated dental horror stories.
He gets a shrug in response.
“Why not?” He presses, as curious as he is concerned. Ghost has a habit of acting like everything is fine when it’s not. The amount of times he’s gone about his business with a pounding headache because he ‘deserves it’ or some other self-sacrificial bullshite-
“They only move around a few times a year.” Ghost mutters, looking between him and the TV, which he completely forgot was on. A footy game, as usual. “I can handle it.”
“You can handle- they move around?” What the fuck!
“Yeah.”
There’s no way that’s as normal as he makes it sound, right? Fucking weird human biology. He’s glad he had his out. Soap looks back at his sketchbook, doodling a couple molars around Simon for the hell of it.
“This one,” Ghost speaks up after a break in the game, getting his attention as he taps his lower right mandible, “finally erupted a couple nights ago. Thought it never would.”
“Erupted?” Soap repeats.
“Burst up through the gums.” Oh, gross! And his eyes have gone crinkly. Enjoying the wide-eyed expression on Soap’s face. “Woke up tasting blood. Kept accidentally biting the loose gum flap at first.”
Gaz gets up and leaves. He can do GSWs and stab wounds, but he gets queasy with eye stuff, fingernail stuff… And apparently teeth stuff, as well.
“That’s rank. Can I see?”
Ghost blinks, cocking his head. He shrugs. Not Soap’s weirdest request. Gaz has just left, anyway, so he sits back and pats his leg.
The sketchbook is swiftly set aside, pencil rolling off the couch. He’ll find it later, if it hasn’t already been claimed by the small-item-void. He drops himself onto Ghost’s lap, thumbs tucking beneath his balaclava and rolling it up just past his nose.
“Wee bit swollen.” He notices, rubbing Simon’s jaw gently. The man presses into it like a pleased cat. The pressure must feel nice. “Open?”
Simon obeys, eyes gone all soft. Big sook. Soap guides him to lean his head back, tugging his lip down a little more and tracing his canines with his thumb.
He likes his teeth. They’re imperfect, crowded lower incisors, uneven canines - the upper left is the sharpest, always leaving a deeper mark than the others. He has a tiny gap between his two front teeth, the right with a small chip that his tongue always finds.
He glances further in, spotting the freshly erupted molar, but he suddenly doesn’t care all too much about it. Sure, it’s kind of cool, a life experience he’ll never have. But he has full access to his mouth right now… He’s an easily distracted man.
“Mmgh.” Simon huffs knowingly, lips twitching up at the corners as Soap delves his thumb deeper. He licks it and chases it around as Soap tries to feel out his teeth, until they’re both smiling and laughing.
Which stops when he presses it down hard, trapping it against the floor of his mouth. Ghost groans and closes his lips around it, a trained action that makes him close his eyes and take a breath. So good for him.
“Bleedin’ Jesus.” He hisses, pulling his mouth open again and adding the pointer finger of his other hand. He properly, patiently learns every dip, groove, and point of his teeth, tongue held still. He wants to memorize him.
He presses the pad of his finger hard against the point of his canine, relishing in the ache-turned-sting of it.
He scrapes his nail against the roof of his mouth to make him grunt.
Spit runs freely down Ghost’s chin.
He finally makes contact with the wisdom tooth, at first gently, applying more and more pressure. Ghost groans, brow knitting as his eyes close, swallowing the pool of saliva that’s collected. He jerks his head, bucks his hips, grabs his arm but only to hold it in place. “Ahnnn-…”
“I’m not a bloody masochist,” Ghost grumbles, shoulders hunched subtly as he gives him a light shove. “There’s just… A good kind of pain.”
“Aye, sir, if ye say so.”
Soap grins at the memory. Fucking liar.
He eases up after Ghost squirms under him, pulling both fingers free, drool dribbling down his wrists. He ignores the annoyed sound at the loss to grab his jaw and bully him into a delightfully sloppy kiss.
So much spit. An obscene slurping noise almost seems to reverberate off the walls - and they break apart to swivel their heads around like meerkats in alert.
The rec room is still empty. All good.
“Ye want to-“
“We should-“
“Yeah,” they say together, scrambling up.
Squeeeak, the recliner complains. They ignore it. Ghost wipes his chin on his sleeve and pulls his mask down. He grabs Soap by the nape of his neck and half drags him down the hall, as is his right to do. What a man.
The door to Ghost’s room barely latches shut before the big guy drops to his knees, fingers working deftly at Soap’s belt.
“Oh.” Soap says. It’s not really what he was expecting, not that he minds one bit. But surely Simon doesn’t want to blow him when he’s got tooth pain? “Are ye sure-?”
“Yes.” The mask hits the floor. His pants hit his ankles. “…Please.”
Well. Can’t say no to that, can he?
Soap runs his fingers through Simon’s hair, flattened and damp from wearing the mask all day. He moans at the sight of him, big brown eyes trained on his bobbing cock, bonnie man he is. His tip smears across the lips he loves oh so much, and he swears under his breath when he watches them purse and give it a little kiss.
“Oh, mo ghràidh...” Soap exhales shakily, sliding his hand down to cup his face. He watches his length slowly disappear into his mouth, hypnotized, fighting his own fluttering eyelashes. Can’t look away.
Simon bobs his head lazily, curling his tongue under the tip every time he pulls back. Drool drips from his chin. He hums, shoulders shaking in a muffled laugh when Soap jolts. Fucker… His cheeks hollow, and he raises his eyebrows in intrigue.
Oh, no. That’s never a good look.
Before Soap can question him, he sucks again, hard, too hard!
“Ah- ah, shite-“ he chokes as he doubles over, gripping the sides of Ghost’s face. “Ye tryin’ to turn me inside oot-?”
He sinks down his cock and does it again. Bastard. Johnny fucks his hips forward until nose meets hair, watching his own abs tighten and tremble. It’s too much!
Suck. Swallow. Soap gets lost in it. Hard, long sucks, unrelenting suction making him jump and gasp, only to break with another swallow. Over and over, hips held in place - he doesn’t even know when Ghost grabbed him… He can’t fuck his throat like he wants to, only take what Ghost gives him, no reprieve. It’s so… So…
Oh, fuck, he’s gonna cum. He usually lasts longer than this, but it kind of hurts and maybe there IS such thing as a good pain, and the way he’s suckling is clearly helping the ache in his jaw, and he looks so sweet even though he’s being an ass- fuck.
“Simon.” He chokes, shuddering when his throat clamps around him again. Hazy eyes blink up at him and he whimpers. Stop looking so cute, you prick! It’s not fair. “Si, ‘m close.”
Simon hums. That faux innocent, curious, vibrating little noise does him in.
John MacTavish, his obituary will read, done in by a slightly torturous blowjob.
“Ah, unh- fock, Christ-“ he babbles, and Simon’s grip loosens up to let him fuck his throat for a moment as he swallows his load as easily as he would water. Insatiable cumslut, he thinks fondly. “I love ye, I love ye so…”
He sags over him, hands braced on strong shoulders. He groans when mm mmm mmm, mm is mumbled around his cock. Simon keeps moving his head, suckling, thankfully lighter than before, but Soap lasts all of ten seconds before he’s swearing at him and pushing him away.
“Yer a prick, ye ken…” He pants, grinning when Ghost looks proud of himself. The cat that got the cream, or whatever. “Come on, come on…”
He drags him to bed, snickering when his knees pop. They flop down together, arms tangling and lips meeting clumsily, teeth clacking before they readjust. He snakes a hand down to help Simon out, but barely gives him a rub before the man jackknifes and whines for him.
Oh, his Simon, his lovely and perfect Simon.
Soap breaks the kiss to watch adoringly as a wet patch forms in dark trousers. He strokes him through it, peppering kisses over his face. When they’ve both caught their breath, he helps him strip, their clothes forming a messy pile on the floor that he’ll almost definitely trip over in the night. He drags him under the covers and presses just as close as can. He’d climb right into his ribcage if he could, but he’ll settle for this.
…
“…Did I hurt your dick?” Simon mumbles, half asleep.
“Maybe a wee bit.” Johnny shrugs. “‘s alright. I think… Maybe I’m a masochist.”