Chapter Text
“ Fuck !” his fist met the hard steel of his locker with bruising force, and he ignored how his knuckles bent the metal in a bit, how much it fucking hurt . Ungloved, scraped up fingers dug into the crevice under the handle, yanking it open so roughly the hinges almost broke off.
That was as much as he would allow his temper to air itself out. His temper, a dangerous thing. A thing that had to be trained, honed into a precise weapon instead of a wild, consuming force.
No one else was around. It was late, three am, time for Hail Marys and regrets late, and he was right mucked up after three connecting flights and Price breathing down his neck, yelling what the fuck were you thinking?
Price had apologized, after, anyone could have made that mistake, lieutenant; I've made worse , but it didn't change anything, didn't change the eating-him-the-fuck-alive guilt.
Ghost was so bone-tired he couldn't even tell if he was real anymore.
All he could think about was that one bad shot, that one fool bad shot, the kind of shot he never took anymore and the hailstorm that came after.
He'd been holed up in that nest for days ; he could still smell the reek of his own piss, feel the gnats crawling on his eyelashes, flies feasting on the heavy sweat at the exposed nape of his neck where he'd rolled up his mask some so he could get air on his suffocating skin.
The bastards bit.
His grip had the slightest bit of shake, the shake of exhaustion from holding his body a certain way for too long, the shake of his dodgy elbow catching up to him. That stupid miniscule shake had missed him his target, had gotten a kid killed, five more civilians. Dead, because of him.
Johnny had been on the ground, tangled up in the fray that ensued. Johnny, who'd gotten right under the enemy fire. Johnny, who'd recompensed for Ghost's momentary lapse of sanity over comms.
Johnny, the fucking beautiful, reckless idiot, who'd kept thirty more innocents from dying on his watch with his iron fucking bollocks, his complete disregard for bullets aimed at his head.
Ghost didn't want to meet his eyes again. Ever again. Johnny had looked up to him.
God, it had been so sweet, while it lasted.
So seductively sweet. So indulgent , keeping him close like that. Letting him think that he was something like perfect, something that wasn't incredibly twisted up inside, broken from all the years behind him.
You wanna be better than me, Johnny.
He'd meant that.
He dragged a soft tee and joggers from his locker like a long lost lover, threads worn down into silky submission from sheer use. His hands curled around the cotton, still shaking, veins so pronounced at the back of them that he was worried about his blood pressure; one of those little torments that came with growing age.
The doc had warned him, said some daft shit about retirement.
What else was he besides this ?
The dense pulse in his veins matched the fierce pounding in his temples when his shot had only grazed his target's ear, shouts of pain alerting every enemy in the vicinity. The countdown on the IED started.
"Steady now, Lt.," Soap's voice cut past the ringing in his ears, crackling in his cans. He was already running toward the danger. "Just get 'em off my back." You got this , the words were implied in that godforsaken charitable tone.
He hated pity. But was it pity? Or was it some other thing that he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge?
Ghost got his head out his arse in time to reposition his crosshair and pick off the deadweight on Soap's tail so he could get to the ticker.
Soap was casual as fuck about the massive roadside bomb. No EOD suit, nothing. Just his smoke-smeared golden skin in the desert sunlight, leather clad hands caressing what had to be searing hot metal, and a devil-may-care curve of his lips Ghost wouldn't easily get out his head.
"She's a fuckin' beaut. Look at the size of her."
"You going to fuck it or disarm it, sergeant? We haven't got all day."
Ghost could remember a time when he owned that sort of thoughtless arrogance, but never in the face of a timed UXB, not even when he was younger. That was an intimacy he never cared to know. That was the sort of bonkers shite he wouldn't touch. Assured, instant death, that was, if it went wrong, and it could go tits up, easy, even if you were a lucky sonofabitch.
Soap practically gave the situation a kiss, though, ran his fucking tongue over it. He treated the whole thing like it was an especially agreeable prick he was sucking. Ghost could almost hear him whispering saccharine Scottish filth to the wire he teased out of the bomb's casing.
"Hell's about to break loose. Stop playin’ about and finish it off, already."
Soap's absolute conceit made Ghost feel something thrumming beneath his sternum that he hadn't felt in ages.
The man deserved a congratulatory toast, a clap on the back, some kind praise. He deserved a good, deep tending to until he came real nice, but all he got was Ghost's harsh, accusatory stare when he turned the corner.
"Fuck are you doing here, Johnny?"
"It's... it's the communal locker room."
"You're supposed to be back in Perth by now," it was just a fact, stated plainly. He didn't have the bandwidth for anything witty. He was forcing himself to meet Soap's eyes, the shine in those goddamn blues painfully raking over him, right through him.
"Sure enough, but..." Soap seemed to think better of his words, leaned his shoulder up against the locker at the end of the row, three down from Ghost's, crossing his arms over his chest. The position pressed his pecs together, made them swell through the thin material of his shirt. Those fucking ridiculous tees that Soap had the gall to wear on a battlefield; the scant, immodest things made Ghost want to cover him up. If not for safety's sake, then for his own sanity.
And if that wasn't the very last thing Ghost needed to be confronted with when all he wanted was a shower and some shut eye–his weak, pitiful attraction, needy and tight in his gut.
" But ?" he asked, impatient.
The room hummed with the sound of the aircon and the tension between them. Johnny's leather glove creaked around one of his flexing biceps.
"Thought you could use the company. After, well." He was being so careful not to remind Ghost of his failure, so considerate. "Steamin' bastard of a day, is all." Ghost preferred Price's disapproving bark. He'd take that any day over the profound discomfort of Soap's kindness. What was he supposed to do with that after he'd fucked up so bad?
His embarrassment and uncertainty hid well, way down within bald-faced anger. "You thought wrong."
"The hell are you so ornery with me for?"
"You didn't wait for my orders. You were careless as fuck, as per usual. What do you want, a gold star and a kiss on your forehead? Go home." Ghost couldn't stand himself for the way his words made Soap's face look, his guilt compounding even before they were all out.
" Simon ."
"Watch it, MacTavish," Ghost cautioned, could feel his heartburn getting worse, bile burning up his chest. "You forget I'm your fuckin' superior officer?"
Soap's eyes narrowed, and he pushed off the locker he was leaning on, taking one, two steps toward Ghost, challenging all the warning signals he was putting off. "Simon, we need to–"
Christ, Soap was going to say something irresponsible . He could feel it, edging its way to the tip of that dangerous pink tongue.
"Go home ." Ghost cut Soap off, put a stop to the whole damn interaction, slammed his locker shut just as roughly as he'd opened it up, stalked right past Soap, right out.
Fuck a shower. He needed a locked door between him and Soap.
He needed an antacid and a lobotomy.
—
A room with no windows made a lot of sense when he was promoted to lieutenant, got his pick of whatever accommodation he wanted. No prying eyes, no way for someone to snipe him dead in his sleep. The security just made him feel better. Not solid eight hours better, but hell, he hadn't had that in over a decade.
That particular night, he really wished he wasn't such a paranoid fuck because he could use the extra oxygen in the stuffy little space, could do with opening a window up wide, letting all that crisp Hereford air in to cool him and his too-small mattress off.
He'd probably welcome a bullet with the way he was still antsy, with the way his once-clean t-shirt stuck to him. His chest hair was near sopping with sweat from the poor air circulation in the barracks, and he could still feel all the grime from the desert, gritty in every pore.
Soap's unwelcome compassion still rasped at his nerves, like that desert sand embedding itself under his mask, rubbing him raw all over.
Ghost's guilt gnawed at the remains, and on what was left of his stomach lining, but he was too brutally knackered to go get some Rennies from his bags.
He grabbed the hem of his left sleeve, wrenched it up over the ball of his shoulder, did the same on the other side. He'd just shrug the damn thing off, but he couldn't take too much slide and catch of the cheap sheets on his bare skin, it made him want to tear it from his bones.
In an incredibly annoying, contradictory feat, his body swam heavy, pliable with exhaustion and bristled with anxiety, those sensitive nerves tingling and flaring. The tension in his spine and shoulders was unbelievable.
He knew what he wanted, but fuck him if he was going to entertain those nagging thoughts again.
He knew what Soap was going to say. Knew what he wanted, too.
Fuck him if he was going to stick his hand in that wasp’s nest willingly.
He definitely wasn't going to go roaming the fucking barracks halls to that door, the one with the cracking, peeling paint in the upper right corner, looking to satiate himself, even if he knew he could’ve. Easily . And wasn't that the bitch of it.
That cocky fucking smirk. Those interminable, big, clear blue eyes. Innocent, dangerous. Both, somehow.
He didn't deserve the way they looked at him.
He was so tired of suffering, but he suffered some more, shifting restlessly, tugging at the edge of his balaclava as if he could possibly pull it down over his sweaty jawline further. As if a covering on his face could protect him from his own rotten core, the nasty things he wanted to do to Soap.
He suffered himself right into a fitful sleep, and restless dreams followed, tormenting him even in his tentative unconsciousness.
The bullet clipping that ear, punching a hole, mangling it unrecognizably.
Shouting. Screaming.
Steady now, Lt.
Soap had said that to him more than once. "Steady now, Lt.," shaky and pained as Ghost lifted him up by the waist, propped him onto a low shipping crate so he could get at a deep knife wound in his thigh.
The memory was one Ghost came back to, over and over and over, when he slept, when he was awake, when he was trying to keep track of the comings and goings of the most wanted man in Central Asia.
Soap cursed and he hissed. The laceration was bleeding through his jeans, soaking them.
“ Quiet . It's a scratch.” It was much more than a scratch, but for some reason, Ghost's voice saying otherwise calmed Johnny right down.
The knife had missed his femoral, but not by much, a few millimeters.
Soap hushed his voice, barely. “Fuckin' hurts . Sick of gettin' stabbed.”
Ghost's laugh had been genuine, a huff through his nose and a deep hum of amusement, “What're you, like twenty? Quit your bitchin'. Plenty more pain to endure, I'm afraid.” He reached out to pop open Soap's pants button. Not for any other reason than to get at the wound so he could bandage it up. Yeah, he wasn't focused on anything else. Not on the stripe of Soap's belly he could see. Not on his labored breathing or his sweaty pulse points.
Soap stopped him with an insistent hand on his wrist.
“Sergeant, you wanna bleed out?”
“'S just…” he let go of Ghost's wrist, understanding the urgency as they both watched the muddy stain in his jeans blossom outward some more. “I can do it myself,” Soap muttered, reaching down, unzipping.
Instead of the band of some boxers or briefs or even a fucking jock strap, Ghost saw thick, dark pubic hair peeking out from Soap's open fly, and, “ Jesus christ, Soap. On an op? Really?”
Ghost wanted to cry in disbelief as Soap shoved a hand down the front of his pants, tried to cup his palm fully around himself for coverage, though there seemed to be an awful lot to contend with. "I just like a lil freedom when I'm workin'.” Soap lifted his hips, “Go on, then.” He didn't even have the decency to look shy.
The battle Ghost fought not to make any unseemly noises was hard won. Seeing Soap in his skivvies would have been bad enough , but no. No, he was being punished for his sins, stuck in hell, completely unprepared.
With every tug on the legs of Soap’s jeans, his ass squirmed around on the wooden palette, fingers splaying over his junk wide, thorough as they could, but he couldn’t stop Ghost from getting glimpses of flesh, a few shades darker than the rest of his body, couldn’t hide the gorgeous hair curling between his knuckles or the patch that trailed up to his navel. God, if the way Soap was holding himself was any indication, his sack was heavy. The urge to take that weight in his own hand was heavier.
Fuck.
When Soap’s pants were around his knees and his blood was rivulets on his skin, Ghost fiddled with his med kit quickly, relieved for anything else to look at, focus on. Thank fuck for the miracles of modern medicine. Some Quikclot and a compression bandage, Soap would be just right until they boarded their helo.
“Can ya be gentler, ya fuckin’ lavvy heid?” Soap groaned at the intrusion against his wound, shifting so much Ghost hoped he got splinters in his bare arse.
“’M not a goddamn medic. Can you be silent , or did you forget we’re balls deep in an enemy freighter?”
“Bad time to talk about balls.” Ghost could see the fucker squeezing his handful of cock in his peripheral, and he knew if he glanced all the way up, Soap would probably be filling out his grip a little more, and that wasn’t something he could handle well.
Soap knew it, he knew it. When Ghost leaned back up, they’d both definitely know it. He was hard as fuck between the digging straps of his harness, and there wasn’t any room for interpretation.
“Shut your bleedin’ trap, MacTavish, for the last time. That’ll do you ‘til exfil,” the irritation in his mouth was just for Soap. He was starting to feel angry. A sort of anger he only felt around Soap, sharp and tearing and hungry.
An anger that had Ghost ready to slap Soap's hand out the way, pin his wrist down by his side so he couldn't cover himself up again, so he could viciously take in the entire obscene display. He wanted it so bad he almost growled out fucking loud.
Soap must've been able to sniff out his weakness, his desire like some sort of wild dog, because Ghost swore he canted his hips forward, up a bit, on purpose. Daring him.
“This wrap job’s shite. Needs tightening.”
That was enough. Ghost finished putting his shit away, unbent himself from in front of Johnny, and grabbed at the shoulder of his tac vest, hoisting him forward, their faces so close that Ghost would be able to feel Soap’s warm breath if there was no mask between them. The hard skull knocked into Soap’s jawbone. “Put yourself away, sergeant.” What was supposed to sound like an order sounded like an aggressive plea.
Ghost’s narrowed eyes pinned Soap, and Soap stared right back, defiant. Soap didn’t back down, he never backed down from anything. He leaned into Ghost, the hand that wasn’t occupied grasping Ghost’s forearm. “Help me? It hurts .”
He could’ve meant his injury. He could’ve, but he absolutely didn’t.
Ghost knew the intention of his low, near-whispered words as he followed Soap’s eyes to that forbidden place between his hard, defined thighs. He wasn’t talking about his injury. Soap was hard in his palm, and he might as well not’ve bothered covering himself anymore. The round, full head of him was visible, and it was gorgeous. Ghost wanted to rest his tongue there, feel it, taste it, find out if that slit was as tender as it looked.
The hard shell of his mask dug into the side of Soap’s jaw so forcefully it might’ve bruised. Not on purpose, he couldn’t fucking help it. He wanted to rub the bare, lust-hot skin of his own cheek against Soap’s, and half the time, he forgot the covering wasn’t just his face.
Soap didn’t seem to mind, pushed his forehead furiously into the pvc, his hold on Ghost’s forearm tightening enough that it left white marks across his tattoo, voice filled with so much sex that it felt like a sin to listen, “C’mon, Lt. Help me out?”
Soap was talking about his dick, yeah, but he was also talking about the whole thing, there between them. The thing that was burning, tight, hot when they occupied space near each other, that got worse every time he was stupid enough to give into the little temptations, the harmless flirting. He’d just wanted a little taste at first, a little go at remembering his glory days, so he flirted, he teased, he let John see his humanity, just a little. But then his control spiraled, and he was letting John reawaken that furious fire that was long dead inside of him, only to realize he couldn’t ever allow himself to be fully consumed by the flames.
Soap was so much younger, his subordinate, there were so many reasons. Reasons that turned him the fuck on, got him hard as a rock, as much as they reinforced his resistance.
In the actual memory, in reality, Ghost whispered back, “I can’t help you, Johnny. Not with that.”
But that’s not what he did in his restless dream. He couldn’t deny himself again, in his own fucking fantasy. He didn't. He imagined grabbing Soap under his knees and pulling them flush; he mouthed, sucked at Soap’s neck, through his mask, material bunching up between his starving lips, and Soap’s strong fingers grabbing frantically at his shoulders. He could feel them there, so vividly, even though they’d never touched him like that.
God, how he wanted them to.
He could feel Soap hard against his hip, through an irritating amount of clothing. He knew if he’d felt that, that day, in the waking world, his pathetic dick would have leaked right through his briefs, right through his thick jeans.
He wondered if Johnny got that wet. If he could make Johnny get that wet.
"Ah, christ. Ah, Johnny ," he said in his imagination, in his half-sleep, and he said out loud, unknowingly, into the silence of his room when his mind provided the sensation of Soap sliding his cock under his clothes so he could feel the bare, searing hot line rubbing against that little bit of belly fat right below his navel.
To be nothing but those fucking fine blonde hairs on his own pelvis, right then, rubbing all over Soap’s gorgeous prick, surrounding his most intimate skin like that.
The vision of Soap grabbed at the hem of his jacket, of his tee, trapping himself there, in between fabric and Ghost’s stomach, and he rutted into the tight squeeze while Ghost’s fingertips dug bruises into his kneecaps.
“Jesus, Lt., are you close ? Like this? Haven’t even touched you.” Funny how his subconscious remembered every single nuance of Soap’s voice, the way he got growly and breathless. So effortless to imagine what he’d sound like during sex.
"Johnny, Johnny ," he whined, useless, so fucking useless it embarassed him even in his own head. He fucking loved the way that word felt in his mouth. He chewed on both delicious syllables, every time he said it. He loved the idea of pressing the word up against Soap's crotch, hardness twitching for his lips and the sound of his own name from them.
One touch was all it took. Soap barely got his zip open, barely got that capable hand around him, and he was coming.
He could hear the pathetic sound he made in his ears, and he could feel the come he envisioned dribbling all over Soap's hand in his fucking briefs, wetting his stomach, seeping through, damp and uncomfortable, mixing with his sweat.
Jesus fuck. Jesus goddamn christ, he'd just come all over himself in his fucking sleep. He didn't even open his eyes. He didn't want to see. His breath was trembling out of his nose and he was fisting his sheets in his hands, the remnants of his dream slipping away, so easily, like dreams always did.
Too bad the mess wouldn't fade. What a joke. Joke so hilarious he found himself pressing his hands over his mouth just to keep himself from laughing. He was going right off the deep end.
Soap was going to fucking kill him.
But when his own breathing finally calmed down into something resembling quiet, he heard something else. Someone else, and he was up and drawing his 9 mil from his nightstand before he could even make out who it was or if it was just another goddamn joke his body was playing on him.
The muzzle pointed straight, sure, right in between the blue eyes he'd just been having a nice little sexual fantasy about.
"What the fuck , Soap."
The dregs of grogginess officially shaken at the intrusion, Ghost was acutely aware of the fact that he had kicked his sheets off. The smear of his come was evident across belly, evident by the way it'd dampened the entire front of his thin, white briefs, evident by the way it shined, caught in the low lamplight he never turned off.
"How long you been there?" he didn't put the gun down, not yet.
Johnny's voice was not normal when he finally spoke, "Long enough."
"You do have a fuckin' death wish. Fuckin' sod," Ghost spat, his eyes flashing at Soap, despite the fact that he was still covered in his own spend, sticky, getting stickier. His tone the only way to maintain some sort of dignity in the face of Soap having seen .
Heard? Fuck.
Soap moved toward him like there wasn't a deadly weapon aimed right at his forehead, his eyes stuck right at the edge of Ghost's tee, right at all that sloppy mess.
His hand moved from his side and Ghost knew where he was going to put it. He grabbed at his wrist, stopped it. "Don't."
Soap let out a long, quivering sigh, "Ya do my heid in, ya know that? Why the fuck not?"
"Just don't."
"You said my name. When you..." Soap was breathless. Soap had a large bulge in his tight trousers.
"Christ." Ghost pushed Soap's wrist away, straightened himself out into a better sitting position, 9 mil still aimed. He didn't know why. Maybe it was because he felt defenseless. There was nothing left between him and Soap. Nothing but some flimsy fabric and the little control he had left. "The fuck did you even get in 'ere?" his voice was still thick with sleep.
Soap made a noise like Ghost was the dumbest fucker alive.
Ah, right. He was dealing with a killer. A cold killer that knew how to pick locks. He probably should have been alarmed at Soap just doing whatever the fuck he pleased, invading his privacy. He wasn't. He loved it. He hated that he loved it.
And he didn't have any room to criticize.
Soap was quick to call him on it. "Tell me you haven't been in my room. Go on. Tell me which of my things you haven't had your hands on, sir ."
Your delicious fuckin' prick . He didn't say it.
Soap grabbed the barrel of his gun, rough, "You've been wantin' me bad," his eyes went right back down to the obscene mess drying, slowly, all over his abdomen.
" 'Course I have. Are you kiddin' me?" he scoffed, honest, for once in his life. What else could he do with Soap bearing down on him like that. What else could he do with Soap's strong scent seeping through the air, onto him, all over him, like he was in heat. His cock was already waking back up.
"Then what's the issue?"
"Wantin' and havin' aren't the same thing, sergeant. You're my responsibility. I'm supposed to look after you. Not fuck you."
Soap's hand slipped down the barrel, down all that metal the way Ghost wished it would slip down around his dick, his face twisting in amusement, knees almost on the edge of Ghost's bed. "Oh, away with that duty shite. "
Soap's knees caught the edge of the mattress, started to move up onto it, his forehead pressing into the gun's muzzle, squarely, fearlessly. "Just take what you want, lieutenant. Or shoot me, I guess."
Ghost growled, low in his throat, pressing the steel into Soap's forehead, hard. "You don't know what you're asking me for. Get the fuck out of here before we do somethin' stupid."
"Do somethin' stupid. C'mon. I don't care."
"Yeah, I know you don't. You never do. Damn the consequences, right?"
Soap laughed. “Fuck off, Simon.”
The goddamn gall of him. The gall of him, the fucking insane, ridiculous gall of him, breaking into his room, staring at him with that hungry stare past a possible bullet eating into his skull. Bold as fuck. It had Ghost's entire body hot, again, so hot that he felt violent.
He slammed the 9 mil down onto the table beside his bed. "Fine, you wanna play with me? Turn the fuck around and sit down," he yanked on Soap's arm, shifting, kicking the rest of his sheets off, opening his naked thighs, his briefs riding all the way up, cutting into the crease of his hips. He wasn't hard again, yet. But he was working on it.
He was working on it when Soap practically scrabbled to do what he commanded, turning, sitting on his bed, scooting back, right into him, nestled right against his lap like a good fucking boy.
Nothing could have kept him from burying his nose against Soap's neck, pushing so ruthlessly against his pulse that it made Soap whine, already. "You smell so good. So," he rubbed his lips into that heated, musky skin. “So good.” He wrapped his body possessively around Soap, his sticky come getting on the back of his green tee. "Fuck, Johnny. Open your legs, come on."
Soap complied, all too quick, spreading. Ghost had his zipper open in seconds, flat, both hands finding the edges of his jeans. "Lift."
Soap lifted up, let him push his jeans down. No underwear, at all, as usual, prick springing out of his pants, leaking and curved onto his hip.
Ghost didn't bother pulling them down anymore. A little out of the way was enough for what he was going to do. He was past the edges of his control. There was nothing he could do to stop himself.
Soap started moving, writhing against him, about to say something.
His mouth opened, but Ghost stopped him. "Listen to me. You want this? Shut the fuck up, stay still."
Soap stilled, submitted to the arm that reached around him and pressed him tight to Ghost's big chest. Ghost's other hand found him, found the heat of him. God, all that for him. Soap was so beautifully erect, all those veins ready, full of blood.
His balls were pulled up tight, and Ghost couldn't help himself, he reached down, cupped them, ran his fingers all over them. Fucking insane with the idea that his hand would smell like him for hours after. He groaned into Soap's ear, "You're trembling, soldier."
"Never..." Soap started. "Your hands."
That's when Ghost realized. He'd never really shown his hands to Johnny. Definitely never touched him with his naked palms. He could feel Soap staring down at them. Could feel the moment when he caught onto the prosthetic ring finger on his left hand that he always kept covered.
He knew Soap was about to try and touch. "Hands to your fuckin' self, or I'll stop. Believe I will."
Soap's hands grabbed the sheets.
"Listenin' to me, good lad." That made Soap groan louder than he'd ever heard him make any single sound.
He kept touching Soap, indecently, fingers tracing his cock, burying themselves in his beautiful pubic hair, ripping little moans from him with each reverent stroke. He'd wanted to touch him like that for so long. He savored it, dragged it out until Soap was nothing against him. Soft, compliant. Until there wasn’t a bit of Soap’s crotch he hadn’t touched.
" Ghost -"
"This good enough for you, Johnny? Knowin' how I wanna touch you?" Ghost asked, his voice dipping down a few octaves, so deep he sounded a bit frightening.
"Want to-" Soap choked out, bucking into his hand, trying to get more contact.
"Wanna come, sweetheart?" he bit down on the tender flesh between Soap's jaw and his neck, and he could feel his own body shaking. He was shaking so bad with everything he'd been holding back for so long. Shaking with how good Johnny was, how willingly and perfectly the line of his body molded back against his, into his. Needing.
Shaking at how dumb it was. How fucking reckless he was being. He needed to think, but he couldn't think. He didn't want to think. He just wanted Soap.
He wanted to cry at how bad he needed him. He wanted to cry at how bad he wanted to fuck him up beyond all recognition, wring him out. Ruin him.
He grabbed at Soap's wrists, pulled them behind him, right at the base of his spine, stretching his shoulders, leaving his cock neglected.
"I wondered how wet you'd get," he whispered, so coarse, right into Soap's ear. "Look at you. You want it so bad."
"F-fuck, I do," Soap whimpered.
"The things I want to put you through."
"Yeah?" Soap asked, his voice so far gone and eager that Ghost barely recognized the sound.
"Make you cry on my cock. Fuckin' weep."
Soap strained against his grip, his cock twitched; he made another sound that seemed impossibly high pitched with that masculine voice of his.
Ghost watched, obsessed, involuntarily licked his lips. "Think I can make you come like this? Without touchin' ya?"
"Fuckin' sadist."
"The hell are you doin' in my bedroom if you don't like it?"
Soap didn't say a damn thing to that, just pushed his ass back into Ghost's pelvis, so close to getting him hard again, so close to getting him to make noise.
"What do you think about me doin' to you, Johnny? Fucking you? Sucking on you? You wanna rub up on me?"
Soap made a strangled noise, "Anything."
"Anything? How pathetic." His left hand stroked down the front Soap's tee, watching the line of his body shift right into his touch, watching his cock jerking against his belly. He tugged on Soap's wrists, behind his back, hard, pulling his whole body up taught, shoulders back. "I'm going to make you come, and then you're going to get the fuck up and go back to your room. You got that?" he nudged Soap's elbows with his body weight, sidling up behind him with every bit of his enormous presence, making him squirm uncomfortably, on purpose.
Maybe this would satisfy Johnny. Maybe this would satisfy them both. Maybe it would end the psychotic fixation they both had.
The thought was just as hopelessly desperate as his grip on Soap.
He waited for the nod, the agreement. "Y-yes. Yes, sir."
He stuffed his fingers into Soap's mouth, choking him, making him drool, Soap's lips sucking, pulling them in further. There wasn't one thing Ghost had given him so far that he didn't quarter eagerly. And fuck if that didn’t make Ghost want him more.
His spit soaked palm found Soap's cock, and he pulled down on it, stroked the pads of his fingers up it, firm. The feeling of Soap giving in under him, between his legs, beneath his oppressive weight, fuck, Ghost could feel his chest squeezing tight. He could feel the tormented tears inside him. Tears mixed with the arousal of his own erection chubbing back up, stiff and unrelenting on his hip, pressed up against Soap’s back.
That seemed to do it, because Soap was buckling, his palms flattening in the bedsheets in front of him, body collapsing forward as he came in thick dribbles all over Ghost's hand, his words completely incomprehensible. Scottish nonsense.
They both breathed in and out, harsh, against each other, Ghost's body bending Johnny's forward, his lips finding Johnny's ear, "Now get the fuck out my room, sergeant."
Soap hesitated. But he obeyed.
Ghost needed him to. They couldn’t do that again. He couldn’t let Soap touch him .
He’d come undone. Truly, wholly, fucking undone.