The silence that followed Ghost's gaze was the loudest noise Soap had ever heard. It was a physical pressure in his ears, a weight on his chest that made it difficult to breathe. Every second stretched into an eternity of pure, unadulterated agony. He could feel the heat of a blush burning his cheeks, a scarlet brand of his utter humiliation. He needed to get out. Now. The consequences be damned. Latrine duty for a month? Fine. A ten-mile run in full kit? Anything. Anything was better than this.
With a choked, barely audible gasp, Soap began to scramble off Ghost's lap. He twisted his body, trying to create distance, to escape the humiliating contact. His hands fumbled blindly in the dim light, searching for the cool, rounded metal of the door handle. His fingers brushed against it, and a wave of desperate relief washed over him. Freedom was seconds away. He would barrel out of this closet, face the jeers of his teammates, and accept his punishment with whatever shred of dignity he had left. It was a far preferable fate than sitting here, trapped under the weight of Ghost's silent, judgmental stare.
Just as his fingers curled around the handle, a vice clamped around his wrist.
It wasn't violent. It wasn't aggressive. It was just… firm. Unyielding. A gloved hand, large and warm, had shot out and encircled his wrist, stilling his movements completely. The grip was absolute, a clear command that screamed 'stop.' Soap froze, his heart lurching into his throat. He was caught. Slowly, dread coiling in his gut, he turned his head to look back at the Lieutenant.
Ghost hadn't moved. He was still sitting against the wall, but his posture was no longer rigid with shock. It was… deliberate. The hand holding Soap's wrist rested on his own knee, a point of undeniable contact. Through the darkness of the mask, his eyes were still fixed on Soap's face, but the confusion had been replaced by something else. Something almost… pensive.
"Wait."
The single word was a low rasp, a vibration that seemed to travel straight up Soap's arm and settle in his chest. He stayed perfectly still, his breath held captive in his lungs.
Ghost's gaze flickered from Soap's wide, panicked eyes down to his hand, still gripping the door handle, and then back again. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, a process that was clearly foreign and uncomfortable for him. He was a man of action, not words. This clumsy attempt at conversation was as foreign terrain as any battlefield.
"I'm not mad," Ghost said finally, his voice quiet, stripped of its usual cold authority. It was just… a voice. A human voice. "MacTavish. Look at me. I'm not."
Soap couldn't have looked away if he wanted to. He was mesmerized, trapped by the unexpected gentleness in the Lieutenant's tone.
Ghost shifted slightly, the movement causing Soap to settle more firmly onto his lap. The friction sent another unwanted jolt of arousal through him, and he flinched, a fresh wave of shame washing over him. Ghost must have felt it, because his grip on Soap's wrist tightened infinitesimally.
"Don't," Ghost murmured, and for a second, Soap wasn't sure what he meant. Don't move? Don't be embarrassed? Don't what? "Don't do that. Don't… pull away."
He took another breath, the sound barely audible in the cramped space. "Listen. I… I get it. I know what people think. When they look at me." He gestured vaguely at his own masked face. "They see the skull. The reputation. The… 'He could crush my skull with his bare hands' thing. It's a passing fancy. A thrill. Nothing real. It's never... this."
His eyes held Soap's with an unnerving intensity. "This isn't a joke to me. And it shouldn't be a source of shame for you. It's a natural reaction. The human body… sometimes you just can't control it. It just happens."
He was trying. The spectre of Task Force 141, the man who spoke in clipped commands and lethal threats, was actively trying to soothe his mortified sergeant. It was so completely unexpected, so utterly out of character, that Soap's brain struggled to process it. He'd built Ghost up in his mind as this untouchable, unfeeling weapon of war, a fantasy object to be admired from a safe distance. He had never, in his wildest dreams, considered that Ghost might possess this capacity for… empathy. Or that he might have noticed Soap at all outside of a professional capacity.
"It's… it's just the situation," Soap stammered, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush of desperate self-preservation. "The close quarters, the… the bloody stupid game. It's not… it doesn't mean anything."
As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. It was a lie, and they both knew it. He saw it in the way Ghost's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. The Lieutenant slowly released his wrist, but he didn't push him away. Instead, his gloved hand came to rest on Soap's thigh, a heavy, grounding weight.
"Doesn't it?" Ghost's voice dropped even lower, a near whisper that was more intimate than a shout. The air crackled with a new tension, one that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the sudden, terrifying possibility that the ground wasn't going to swallow him whole after all. "Seven minutes, Johnny. We've still got time."
The weight of Ghost's hand on Soap's thigh was a brand, a searing point of contact that anchored him to the moment. "Doesn't it?" Ghost's question hung in the stale air between them, a challenge and an invitation all at once. Soap's mind was a blank slate, wiped clean by the sheer impossibility of the situation. He had no answer. He had nothing but the frantic beating of his own heart and the undeniable proof of his desire pressing against the man he idolized.
Ghost seemed to sense his complete and utter shutdown. The hand on his thigh began to move, a slow, deliberate motion, tracing circles through the fabric of his trousers. It was a soothing gesture, grounding and shockingly intimate. It was the kind of touch a lover might offer, not a superior officer.
"Hey," Ghost's voice was still a low rumble, a stark contrast to the violent tremor that was still rattling through Soap's body. "Easy. Breathe, Johnny."
The use of his name, spoken so softly, was almost too much. He took a shaky breath, the air feeling thick and heavy in his lungs.
"Are you comfortable?" Ghost asked, his eyes never leaving Soap's face. The question was so absurd, so far outside the realm of their current reality, that Soap almost laughed. "I need to know. I don't want you to regret this. If this is… if this is just a product of this stupid game, a one-time thing in a bloody closet, then I need you to be okay with that. I don't want you walking out of here hating yourself, or me."
The sincerity in his tone was disarming. This wasn't a predator toying with his prey. This was… Ghost being careful. It was a side of him Soap had never seen, a vulnerability hidden beneath layers of Kevlar and bone-white paint. He didn't know how to respond, so he just shook his head, a mute denial of the 'one-time thing' notion, a silent plea for… more.
Apparently, that was answer enough. Ghost's other hand came up to rest on Soap's hip, and with a gentle but undeniable pressure, he guided him. "Come here. Settle. Stop trying to hover like you're afraid you'll break me."
Soap allowed himself to be pulled back, his body sinking more fully into Ghost's lap. The movement erased the last sliver of space between them, and the full length of Soap's arousal was now pressed flush against Ghost's own abdomen. The shame was still there, a low thrumming beneath his skin, but it was being drowned out by something else. Something warm and terrifyingly hopeful.
Ghost's hands resumed their soothing path, one on his thigh, one on his hip, the rhythmic circles a strange and hypnotic comfort. Soap could feel his own frantic pulse beginning to slow, to sync with the steady rhythm of Ghost's touch. He let his head fall forward, his forehead resting against the cool, hard plane of Ghost's tactical vest. He was hiding, he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to meet that intense, searching gaze anymore.
Ghost went still for a moment, his hands ceasing their motion. Soap tensed, fearing he'd said the wrong thing, that the moment was broken. But then, Ghost's voice was in his ear, a whisper so quiet he almost thought he'd imagined it.
"Johnny…"
It was just his name. But the way Ghost said it, the way it was breathed into the space between them, made it sound like a prayer. Soap felt a shiver trace its way down his spine. He stayed perfectly still, listening.
"You have no idea, do you?" The whisper continued, laced with a new kind of heat. A heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment. "How many times I've watched you. The way you move, the fire in your eyes when you're on a mission. That bloody mohawk. That smirk you get right before you do something stupidly brilliant."
Soap's head shot up. His eyes widened in disbelief. This was a fantasy. He had to have passed out from sheer mortification and this was some kind of oxygen-deprived hallucination.
Ghost's eyes were closed now, his head tilted slightly back against the wall, the painted skull a terrifying and beautiful mask of concentration. He was lost in thought, in a memory that Soap was now a part of. "Thought about this," he breathed, and Soap felt a deep, resonant tremor run through the body beneath him. "Thought about you. Like this."
And then Soap felt it.
It started as a subtle shift, a change in pressure against his own erection. But then it grew, a firm, undeniable heat blossoming beneath him, pressing back with an insistent pressure that mirrored his own. Ghost was getting hard. The thought was so staggering, so overwhelmingly powerful, that Soap's vision swam. The man he had been pining over, the man he had built up in his mind as an untouchable god of war, was physically responding to him. To his proximity. To his presence.
A low groan rumbled in Ghost's chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated want. His hips bucked upwards, a single, sharp thrust that ground their erections together through the layers of their uniforms. The friction was exquisite, a bolt of pure pleasure that shot through Soap's body and made him gasp aloud. It was involuntary, a reflex to the overwhelming stimulation.
Ghost's eyes snapped open at the sound. They were dark, no longer questioning or confused, but filled with a heavy-lidded, predatory heat that made Soap's mouth go dry. He watched Soap's face, his gaze intense and searching.
He bucked up again, slower this time, a deliberate grind that was designed to be felt, to be acknowledged. "Feel better now?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly tease. "Knowing it's not just you?"
Soap could only manage a jerky, frantic nod. He wasn't just feeling better; he felt like he was flying. The shame had evaporated, replaced by a dizzying, heady sense of power and shared desire. He wasn't alone in this. This wasn't just his humiliating secret. It was theirs. The seven minutes in heaven had suddenly become a reality, and he was perfectly content to let it burn him alive.
The frantic nod Soap gave was an understatement. He felt like he'd been struck by lightning, every nerve ending alight with a current that was pure, undiluted want. The shame was gone, vaporized by the undeniable proof of Ghost's own arousal pressing insistently against him. He wasn't just some sad, pathetic private with a hopeless crush. This was… mutual. The thought was so intoxicating it was almost frightening.
He lifted his head from its position against Ghost's chest, pulling back just enough to meet the Lieutenant's gaze directly. The air in the closet had changed, thickening with a new, charged tension. Soap wasn't hiding anymore. He was staring Ghost down, his blue eyes locked on the dark sockets of the mask, a silent challenge passing between them. He was no longer a victim of his own embarrassment; he was an active participant, and he wanted to see everything, to understand everything.
A thought, sharp and unwelcome, pierced through the haze of arousal. He'd seen Ghost look at women. On the rare occasions they'd managed a piss-up in a civilian pub, he'd watched Ghost's gaze linger on a pretty waitress or a woman at the bar. It was an appreciative look, a silent acknowledgment of beauty. But he'd never seen Ghost act on it. He'd never seen him so much as strike up a conversation. Soap had just filed it away, assuming Ghost was one of those soldiers who was all business, who kept his personal life so far under lock and key that it might as well not exist. He'd assumed, with a pang of resignation, that the Lieutenant was as straight as they came.
Maybe… maybe this was just a fluke. A moment of extreme proximity. Maybe Ghost just got off on the power, on the fact that someone wanted him, regardless of who it was. The thought that Ghost might find him ugly, that this was just a physical reaction to a warm body, sent a fresh wave of insecurity through him. He had to know.
"You're… I thought you were straight," Soap said, his voice barely a whisper. It was a gamble, a direct question in a situation that was already so fragile it could shatter.
Ghost's hands, which had been still on his hips and thigh, tightened their grip. The rhythmic circles stopped. For a heart-stopping second, Soap thought he'd ruined it. But then Ghost let out a soft sigh, a sound that spoke of long-held truths and weary explanations.
"I'm demisexual. And bisexual," Ghost stated, the words clear and precise, as if he were reading a mission briefing. "It means the physical side of things doesn't really… register for me unless there's a strong emotional connection first. It's not about gender. It's about the person."
He paused, and his gaze intensified, as if he were looking directly into Soap's soul. "And the only person who has dared get close enough to me for me to even think about sexual attraction in years… is you, Johnny."
Soap's breath hitched. His mind was racing, trying to process the information. Demisexual. He'd heard the term, but he'd never truly understood it until this moment. It wasn't a rejection; it was an explanation. It was a key turning in a lock he hadn't even known was there.
"Think about it," Ghost continued, his voice dropping back to that low, intimate rumble that vibrated straight through Soap's bones. "Who sits with me at mess when everyone else gives me a wide berth? You. Who picks the seat next to me on the transport planes, even when there are a dozen empty ones? You. Who actually laughs at my god-awful, deadpan jokes instead of just staring at me like I'm a freak?"
Each question was a hammer blow, striking at the foundation of Soap's perception of their relationship. He had done those things. He'd never thought of it as anything other than… being a mate. He wasn't scared of Ghost. He respected the hell out of him, but he wasn't intimidated. He enjoyed his company, even in the silences. He'd just assumed he was the only one who wasn't put off by the Lieutenant's intimidating aura.
"No one else has done that," Ghost concluded, his voice trailing off, heavy with a loneliness that Soap had never noticed before. "Not since Price, anyways."
The name landed like a grenade in the small space.
Soap's entire body went rigid. His brain stuttered to a halt. Price? The Captain? Price? He replayed the sentence in his head. Not since Price, anyways. The implication was staggering. It hung in the air, thick and suffocating. The formidable, cigar-chomping Captain John Price and the silent, lethal Ghost? It was a pairing his mind couldn't even begin to construct.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes wide with shock and a sudden, sharp pang of… something. Jealousy? Curiosity? A bizarre sense of betrayal? He stared at Ghost, trying to find an answer in the painted mask. "You and… Price?" Soap asked, his voice cracking on the name. "Had a… a thing?"
Ghost's gaze didn't waver. He didn't seem surprised by the question. He just watched Soap, his expression unreadable, letting the truth of it settle in the space between them. It wasn't a confession, not really. It was a statement of fact. A piece of history. A piece of his history that, until now, had been locked away with everything else. And he was giving it to Soap. Just like he was giving him everything else.
The question hung in the air, charged with an electricity that had nothing to do with their current arousal. Soap's mind was a whirlwind of impossible images: Price's weathered, grizzled face leaning close to Ghost's masked one; the Captain's rough hand on the Lieutenant's shoulder. It was a history he never knew existed, a secret shared between the two men he respected most in the world, and he felt like an intruder.
Ghost must have seen the turmoil in his eyes, the confusion warring with a nascent, unwelcome jealousy. A low, humorless chuckle rumbled in his chest, the sound vibrating through Soap's body.
"No," Ghost said, his voice firm, clearing the air. "Not a shared thing. It was just… me. My side of the street." He shifted his weight slightly, the movement a subtle adjustment that brought them even closer. "Price saw something else. He saw Simon Riley. Not just the Ghost."
The name hit Soap like a physical blow. Simon Riley. It was a name whispered in mission briefings and personnel files, but it was never spoken aloud on the base. It was a ghost of a ghost, the man buried beneath the skull-painted mask. And Price saw him.
"He's the only one on this team who has seen my face," Ghost admitted, the words weighted with a profound vulnerability. "Everyone else… you… you've only seen the eyes. Nothing more." He paused, and Soap could feel the weight of what he was about to say. "I had a crush on the captain. A proper, schoolboy crush, if you can believe it. He was the first person in years who wasn't afraid to look me in the eye and call me by my name."
Soap listened, his own arousal momentarily forgotten, completely captivated by the raw honesty being laid bare in the darkness. This was more intimate than any touch, more revealing than any kiss.
"Sometimes," Ghost continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "I still do. In the rare moments where it's just us two, planning a mission, sharing a drink… the embers are still there. They glow for a bit. But they don't burn as hot as they once did. Time… time does that. It cools things down."
He looked away for a moment, his gaze fixed on the dusty wall of the closet as if he could see a memory playing out there. "I know he's thought about it. I see the way he looks at me sometimes during training, when he thinks I'm not paying attention. A different kind of look. Not just a captain looking at his lieutenant."
His eyes found Soap's again, and the intensity was back, but this time it was tinged with a weary resignation. "But we both knew it would be a bad idea. A spectacularly bad idea. He's my commanding officer. I'm his… weapon. Mixing that with… this? It would have broken the team. It would have broken us. Some lines you don't cross, no matter how much you want to."
The logic was sound, the reasoning impeccable. It was the same unspoken rule that hung between Soap and Ghost, the reason this moment felt so dangerous and so precious. But there was a hole in the story, a loose thread that Soap couldn't help but pull.
"But you said…," Soap started, his voice hesitant. "You said not since Price. Like something actually happened."
Ghost's lips twisted into a wry smile beneath the mask, an expression Soap could feel rather than see. A quiet sigh escaped him, warm against Soap's cheek.
"Ah," Ghost murmured, his voice laced with a fond, distant memory. "Well. There was… one time." He paused, and the air grew thick with anticipation. "A bad night. After a particularly nasty op in Kastovia. Too much whiskey. Not enough sleep. The walls were thin, and we were both… feeling the weight of it all."
He shifted again, his hands moving from Soap's hips to his lower back, pulling him impossibly closer. The movement was possessive, a silent claim that sent a fresh jolt of desire through Soap's veins.
"It was just a kiss," Ghost said, his voice so low now that Soap had to strain to hear it. "A drunken, stupid, desperate kiss. Meant nothing and everything all at once. It happened in the dark, and we never spoke of it again. But that is a story for another time."
He leaned in, his masked face just inches from Soap's own. The warmth of his breath fanned across Soap's lips. The story of Price was over. The past was back where it belonged. Now, there was only the present. The cramped closet, the seven-minute timer, and the man in his lap who had just laid his soul bare.
"This story," Ghost whispered, his dark eyes burning into Soap's, "is about you and me. And it's just getting started."
The weight of Ghost's confession settled in the small space, a thick blanket of shared history and unspoken feelings. The story of him and Price was a ghost story of a different kind, a tale of what-could-have-been that had flickered and died before it could ever truly burn. Soap understood, perhaps better than anyone, the necessity of drawing hard lines in their line of work. But it also shone a harsh light on the present, on the precariousness of this moment.
Ghost's hands, which had been possessively holding him close, loosened their grip slightly. He leaned back, creating a fraction of an inch of space between them. The dark intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by a look of careful consideration. It was the look of a man disarming a bomb, one wrong move and everything would be blown to hell.
"This is your last out, Johnny," Ghost said, his voice low and serious, stripping away all the heat and leaving only the raw, honest truth. "I mean it. We can walk out of here right now, and this never happened. No awkwardness, no talk. We go back to being just sergeants and lieutenants. I'll leave it alone. I swear it."
Soap stared at him, his heart hammering against his ribs. He didn't want an out. He wanted to dive deeper into this dangerous, exhilarating water. But he stayed silent, letting Ghost finish, sensing there was more.
"I don't want you to feel pressured," Ghost continued, his gaze unwavering. "This is… new for you. For me. If you're not ready for… whatever this is… that's okay. We can stop." He paused, and then he offered something that made Soap's heart clench in a way that was both painful and profound. "Or… I can take care of you. Just you. No strings. I'll get you off, and then we walk out. You can have the bragging rights if you want them. It's yours. No expectation for anything in return."
The offer was meant to be kind, Soap knew. It was meant to be considerate, to put Soap's comfort and desires above his own. But it landed like a punch to the gut. It broke his heart, just a little. Because in that moment, all Soap heard was that Ghost didn't expect reciprocation. That he saw himself as an object to be used, a tool for pleasure, just like he was a tool for war. He didn't believe someone would want him back, not truly, not in a way that was mutual and shared. The thought of this powerful, complex man seeing himself as so un-lovable, so unworthy of receiving pleasure in return, was agony.
Soap's response wasn't verbal. Words felt inadequate, cheap in the face of such a profound misunderstanding. He answered with his body.
With a soft, determined sigh, he began to move. He rolled his hips, a slow, deliberate grind that dragged his clothed erection against the hard length beneath him. It was a medium pace, steady and confident, a silent rebuttal to Ghost's offer of a one-sided transaction. He was telling him, I see you. I want you. This is for us.
Letting his head fall forward, Soap buried his face in the crook of Ghost's neck, his lips seeking out the warm, exposed skin just above the collar of his tactical vest. He pressed his mouth there, sucking gently, using the sensitive flesh to muffle the soft moan that escaped his lips as the friction sent waves of pleasure coursing through him. It was an act of possession, a silent claim that was both tender and hungry.
The reaction was instantaneous. Ghost's body went rigid beneath him, and a sharp, audible gasp escaped his lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock. It was the first truly unrestrained noise Soap had heard him make. The hands that had been resting on his waist suddenly grabbed hold, fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform with bruising force. And then, Ghost was moving with him.
He bucked up, a powerful thrust that met Soap's downward grind, matching his rhythm perfectly. It was no longer Soap moving alone; it was a duet, a shared dance of desperate need in the dusty dark. The pace quickened, the friction building, a delicious, agonizing slide of fabric and heat.
What surprised Soap, though, was the sound. Or rather, the lack of it. Aside from that initial gasp, Ghost was surprisingly quiet. The only noises he made were the harsh, heavy breaths that fanned against Soap's hair and the occasional, whispered curse that was so low it was more vibration than sound. "Fuck… Johnny… hell…"
It made Soap wonder. It made him think about all those long, tense nights on watch, or the quiet moments holed up in some dusty safehouse. How many times had Ghost been like this, silently suffering, biting his lip to keep from making a noise while listening to comms? How many times had he taken care of himself in the dark, alone and silent, trained to be quiet even in his most private moments? The thought was both incredibly sad and unbelievably arousing. He wanted to break that silence. He wanted to be the one to finally make Ghost loud.
The friction was a delicious, maddening torment, a steady rhythm that was building a fire in the pit of Soap's stomach. He could feel Ghost's control, the tightly coiled discipline in the powerful muscles flexing beneath him, but it was fraying. Each thrust was a little harder, each gasp a little sharper. He pulled his mouth away from Ghost's neck, the skin there already glistening and reddened from his attention. A raw, guttural groan escaped his lips, unbidden and loud in the quiet closet.
"Ghost… Simon… fuck, you feel so good," he panted, the words tumbling out, messy and sincere. He ground down particularly hard, and felt it – a distinct, answering twitch from the rigid length trapped beneath Ghost's trousers. It wasn't just a reaction; it was a response. A direct, physical reply to his words.
And something clicked into place.
It wasn't just the proximity. It wasn't just the physical friction. Ghost liked this. He liked being told he was good, that he was doing a good job. The relentless praise kink of a soldier starved for affirmation, but in a form far more intimate than a 'well done' from his captain. Soap could work with that. Oh, he could work with that all day.
Ghost, for his part, was still coherent enough to wage his own brand of warfare. His hands were like vises on Soap's hips, guiding his movements, urging him on. His voice, when it came, was a low, filthy whisper that was pure sin. It solidified Soap's theory about him jerking off in the field. There was no way in hell Soap would be able to form coherent sentences, let alone talk like this, in the middle of an op.
"You have no idea," Ghost breathed, his lips brushing against Soap's ear. "How many times I've felt this. Felt you get hard when we were wrestling. All that training, all that rolling around on the mat… you thought I didn't notice?" He bucked up hard, emphasizing his point, and Soap cried out softly. "Every time I got the upper hand, every time I pinned you… you'd press against me. You must've liked it, huh, Johnny? Liked me on top."
The words were a revelation, a confirmation of a dozen moments Soap had written off as his own embarrassing secret. Ghost had known. He'd been aware, and instead of pushing him away, he'd been cataloguing it, storing it away for this moment.
"You look so pretty right now," Ghost continued, his voice dropping even lower, a gravelly praise that made Soap's head spin. "All desperate. Grinding down on me like you can't get enough. So good for me, Johnny. You're being so good for me."
The praise was a drug, and Soap was instantly addicted. It wasn't just about getting off anymore; it was about this. It was about giving Ghost what he needed, what he secretly craved. He started grinding in earnest, abandoning the medium pace for a harder, faster rhythm that was all about chasing that high. He leaned back, bracing his hands on Ghost's shoulders, giving himself the leverage to move with more force.
"Yeah?" Soap groaned, his own voice thick with lust and a newfound confidence. "You like that, Simon? You like knowing I was getting hard for you? That every time you pinned me, all I could think about was you fucking me?" The words felt dangerous and delicious on his tongue. "You're so fucking good. Always in control. Christ, the way you move… you're brilliant. You're so good, Simon. So bloody good for me, too."
Praise dripped from his lips, and every word was sincere. He wasn't just playing a part; he meant it. He meant every adoring, filthy word. He saw the tactical genius, the lethal soldier, and he wanted him. He saw the broken man hiding behind the mask, and he wanted him even more.
Ghost's response was a choked gasp, his hips stuttering for a moment before matching Soap's new, punishing rhythm. "Fuck, Johnny," he cursed, his control finally shattering. "Say that again."
"You're good," Soap breathed, his forehead falling to rest against Ghost's, their breath mingling in the heated space between them. "You're so good. You feel so good. I wanted you for so long. Let me have you. Let me make you feel good, too."
The last part was a plea, a final shattering of Ghost's self-imposed isolation. And in the darkness of the closet, with the sounds of their teammates just beyond the door, Simon Riley finally let go.
The words "Let me make you feel good, too" seemed to be the final key turning in the lock of Ghost's restraint. A raw, ragged sound tore from his throat, a noise that was half-sob, half-snarl, as his hips snapped up with a renewed, desperate urgency. He was chasing his own end now, no longer holding back, his rhythm becoming erratic and forceful. His gloved fingers dug so hard into Soap's hips he knew there would be bruises tomorrow, a thought that sent a thrill straight through him.
Soap met him thrust for thrust, his body moving on pure instinct, his praise dissolving into incoherent, breathy moans of Simon's name. He could feel Ghost's control fracturing, could feel the tension coiling in his powerful frame, and he knew he was close. He wanted to see it, to feel it, to be the cause of it.
Just as Ghost's movements became sharp and erratic, his body tensing for the final release, he did something that sent a bolt of pure electricity through Soap's system. He ducked his head, his masked face pressing into the crook of Soap's neck, and then he bit down.
It wasn't a gentle nip. It was a hard, possessive bite, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin where his neck met his shoulder. The sharp sting of pain was instantly eclipsed by a wave of blinding pleasure. It was a claim. A brand. A desperate, instinctual act of marking what was his, and the sound of his muffled groan against Soap's skin was the final straw.
The idea of being marked up by Ghost, of walking out of this closet with the Lieutenant's claim on his skin, visible for anyone who knew where to look, was so overwhelmingly potent that it sent Soap right over the edge. His hips stuttered, his rhythm breaking as his entire body seized up. A choked cry was swallowed by the fabric of Ghost's vest as his orgasm crashed through him, a blinding, all-consuming wave of pleasure that left him shaking and breathless. He rode it out, his body slumping against Ghost's, his movements turning into slow, lazy grinds as he milked every last sensation from the moment.
They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, a tangled, sweaty heap in the dusty darkness. The only sounds were their ragged breaths, slowly evening out, and the frantic pounding of their hearts, beating in tandem. Soap could feel the damp warmth spreading through both their trousers, a messy, intimate proof of what they'd just done. It should have been awkward, but it wasn't. It felt… right.
After several long moments, Ghost shifted, his hands moving from Soap's hips to gently rub his lower back in a soothing motion. He lifted his head from Soap's neck, his dark eyes searching Soap's face in the dim light.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice rough and hoarse. "Was I… too rough?"
Soap managed a weak, sated grin, lifting his head from Ghost's shoulder. He felt boneless, spent in the best possible way. "I'm good, L.T. More'n good," he murmured, his voice thick. "Everything's… brilliant."
A flicker of relief crossed Ghost's features, quickly replaced by his usual stoicism. "Good." He paused, his gaze turning practical, the soldier in him reasserting control. "Alright. We need a plan. We walk out of here. We can't look like this. We can't look… happy."
Soap raised an eyebrow, a little impressed by the quick tactical thinking.
"We had an argument," Ghost stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "A bad one. That's why we're coming out looking pissed off. It'll explain any tension, any… well, anything. Got it?"
"Argument," Soap repeated, nodding slowly. It was a good plan. A solid, deniable lie. "Right. Pissed off. I can do pissed off."
They took another moment to compose themselves, straightening their uniforms as best they could in the cramped space. Soap ran a hand through his sweaty hair, trying to make it look less like he'd just been thoroughly ravished. Ghost adjusted his mask, a familiar gesture that once again hid him away.
"Ready?" Ghost asked, his hand resting on the door handle.
Soap took one last deep breath, steeling himself. "Ready."
The door swung open, flooding the small space with light from the hallway. Ghost pushed past him, his face set in a thunderous scowl. Soap followed a beat later, doing his best to mirror the Lieutenant's foul mood. He could feel the curious eyes of the team on them as they walked back into the mess hall.
Gaz was the first to speak, his usual cheerful expression replaced with a look of concern. "Blimey, you two look like you've seen a ghost. Everything alright?"
Ghost just grunted, grabbing a bottle of water from a table and stalking off without a word. Soap ran a frustrated hand through his hair, glaring at no one in particular. "Piss off, Gaz. Just had a disagreement about tactics, is all."
He watched Ghost walk away, the powerful line of his shoulders unmistakable even from a distance. And then the thought hit him, so absurd and so perfectly, ridiculously true that he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot.
They had literally just come out of the closet.
