Chapter Text
There are about fifteen things bothering Ghost right now, between the ache of his bad hip from a mean clip on the last mission, to the bandage healing on his shoulder. And most importantly, Soap’s incessant fucking yapping.
They're back on base from their last mission together, lights off and television rattling on. Gaz had put on some worn bare VHS and right now, Soap is yapping to Gaz over the blaring television about how this movie, “Had barely any CGI, it actually had animatronics and people in werewolf suits on stilts. Oh, and! The director hired dancers for this role because–”.
Every time Gaz replies with a fraction of his enthusiasm, little squeaks and squeals escape the omega in his excitement. Sounds that replay repeated in Ghost’s mind hours later, for entirely innocent reasons. Every fuckin’ emotion that comes into Soap’s body is painted on his face, out for the whole world to see it. It repels Ghost as much as it draws him in, reluctant and resistant to his burgeoning fasciation.
Ghost’s mind wanders of course, to the many ways he could shut the prattling boy up. To the endless options he has with their supplies on base, with zip ties, rope even. Duct tape across his lucious fucking mouth. Which naturally leads to other thoughts, specifically involving his cock, shoved down to the hilt into that wet fuck hole.
He stares openly at Soap, perplexed by how such a large man had successfully folded himself into the armchair, arms and legs contorted in positions that would rouse admiration in a trained contortionist.
He waves his pen around animatedly in reply to Gaz’s goading, journal tucked safely in the crook of his other arm. The longer Ghost looks, the more his too-big black tee begins to look more familiar. His nostrils flare in realization that Soap is wearing one of his favorite black shirts that he’d been trying to locate for a fuckin’ week, going as far as hounding after the weekly laundry collection staff.
Soap’s gaze finds him, head cocked as if he’d heard the alphas murderous thoughts, meeting Ghost’s unbelieving squint. He smirks, tapping the end of his pen against his jutting bottom lip as if he’s lost in thought.
His mischievous, brilliant blue omegean eyes widen in faux innocence as he opens his mouth, eyes unwavering from Ghost’s withering stare as his pink tongue darts out, curling around the end of the pen before suckling it into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks. Ghost is possessed by the mad thought that Soap is making a real great case to be his chosen cockwarmer.
Bloody fucking menace.
He hears the wooden chairs armrest creak with the force of his grip, slowly swiveling his head back to the television just in time to watch werewolves snap their jaws at each other in competition for the entrails of a soldier, muzzles glistening with the man’s gore.
Ghost has the brief thought of getting himself checked by medical for a fever.
***
Ghost didn’t spend time around omegas, until Soap MacTavish.
They typically remained tucked in their ivory towers, doted on and worshipped by powerful alphas., often promised to powerful alphas the very day their secondary gender presented itself. Deals are made and pacts forged, at the small cost of an omegas autonomy.
Not all were born to fall on this sword, in recent years omegas have been rewarded limited rights and autonomy. Even the SAS had opened their doors to omega applicants only a few years prior, with few applying, and only one successfully completing the arduous selection process.
It kept things uncomplicated. No omegas on the cusp of their heat to distract his men out in the field, glimpses of unclaimed glands slipping out from under their bite guards transforming the group of alphas into hollow beasts of themselves, purely on their visceral need to stick their dick in omega pussy.
Arm candy for the rich and powerful didn’t have a place in the military in his eyes, especially not in his task force. Under his care. Ghost did not take the news kindly, left to brood by Price with a too hard pat on the back and the company of a glass of bourbon and a cigarette.
Soap MacTavish wears his omega patch proudly. At the front of his vest– as essential as his blood type, his red, white, and blue union jack. Over his beating heart.
He’d trotted up to them with a bright smile, even brighter, eerily charming blue eyes. Ghost was convinced their otherworldly beauty was a myth, embellished to make omegas all that more tempting, made up for picture books and children’s stories. Until he’d seen them for himself. The longer he looks, the more his teeth protrude in the form of a snarl behind the mask.
This omega’s smile doesn't waver when the hand outstretched to greet Ghost is met with a blank stare.
He wasn’t frail and demure like Ghost had expected when Price told him one of the first omegas to pass selection would be joining their taskforce, a man he’d assured that had earned his place here. And Ghost would make sure he saw to that, personally.
Cruelty stalks its way into his mind knowing that this omega could have chosen a life that an alpha of his stature could only experience through second hand stories. He’d ensure he knows the folly of his triumphant success, being the first omega to grace the halls of Credehall without hanging off the arm of an alpha. “Let’s see if new meat’s got legs.”
Price’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at Ghost’s request. He gives Soap a half shrug before ushering him off to their obstacle course.
The prick cleared their FNG drills in record fucking time and shaved a few seconds off the fastest IED defuse time.
***
Ghost’s routine night-time visit to the gym is met with raucous cries rising from the alphas and betas gathered around one of the mats. He wades his way through and watches then, as this omega, Soap, had taken one of the largest alphas on base and pinned him to the mat, grinding his face into the nylon as he triumphs in his victory.
Entirely unashamed of the black, elastic straps curling around his neck and dipping into the neck of his shirt; the sole man in the room who is expected to wear a bite guard.
The arrogance of his win is undeniable on his face, red with exertion, usually kempt mohawk clinging messily to his sweat slick forehead.
The tilted grin is wiped from his features when he sets his eyes on the alpha, leaning back to his full height when he realizes he has his lieutenant’s undivided attention. Brazenly showing off all of that corded muscle under his grey, sweat stained tank. All that power in his muscular, tight body.
Ghost finds himself, again, caught in the glinting lure of those vibrant omegean eyes.
A lesser alpha might have been impressed. Ghost turns heel and walks over to the weight rack begin his workout routine.
***
Price sticks them on every possible four man mission in the next few months, with their main priority being team synchronization. Soap sews himself effortlessly into the seams of the already existing pack bond of the three men, inseparable from Gaz’s side since he’d stuck the 141 patch on his vest, taken under Prices’ overarching wings like he was always meant to be there. Ghost begrudgingly accepts Soap’s place on the task force with wavering trepidation, unconvinced an omega could prove itself to be an asset.
Soap lives up to his nickname by cleaning house efficiently under Ghost’s supervision, watching in hallowed awe each time that raging temper unfurls from Soap’s body, primed and posed to follow every order he’s with unwavering obedience.
Before entering a combat zone Soap pauses, averts his searching eyes to the general direction he knows Ghost’s scope is tucked into. Canines bared in his anticipation, he asks, “Eyes on me, Lt?” voice gruff, overexcited like he can’t help it. Waiting to be let off his leash under the sights of his Lieutenant. Lt? Ghost bristles, nostrils flaring at the omega’s audacity– and even moreso, that he likes the sound of it.
“Always on you, Soap.” Ghost replies coolly, turning off his radio momentarily to heave a sigh into the concrete he’s laid on. So much for keeping it fucking tactical.
He watches through his scope as Soap transforms a room full of men into heaps of flesh and bone, a wicked smile painted on his features as he surveys the room. He admires his own handiwork, the limitless potential of his violence.
The satisfaction of a mission complete runs deeper with the knowledge that this omega has dirtied his hands on his order, an extension of his will and whims. His little tool.
***
Hunger is something Ghost was intimately familiar with. The weakening, cramping, debilitating pangs of agony. The bitter burn of stomach acid creeping up his throat in search of sustenance.
This hunger was foreign, the biting, all consuming desire stuffing him full, until he’s fit to burst and he’s still not fed. Hunger in the way of saliva wetting his mask as he watches Soap’s grey tee become drenched in his sweat. Losing count of his reps because the omega had decided just then to practice his downward dog form.
Hunger, so severe and absolute that he fears Soap will be able to feel a physical manifestation of it. The grave weight of his want.
They’re alone, here in the locker room, something they’d done countless times before.
Ghost had shrugged off Soap’s requests for a spar, filled with unease at the thought of that hot skin beneath his fingers in any capacity. Up close and personal with the fucking cursed spandex collar stretching and giving over the tendons of Soap’s neck.
Soap is hovering, distracted, his unruly mouth had been unusually silent since he’d trailed Ghost into the locker room.
Ghost could have returned to his bunk, used his own officer's shower to enjoy his privacy with a fist around his cock. But he doesn’t– he doesn’t because Soap wouldn’t be hot on his heels there.
Feels his stare hot on his back when he peels off his sweat soaked shirt, leaving on the soft, plain balaclava he wears to work out in. Knows he wants to see what's under the mask from his cheeky quips here and there, but this feels more than that, like it doesn't matter if Ghost has the mask on or not. Like Soap’s eyes can see right through that skull mask; see the uneasy set of his jaw every time he’s caught staring.
And Soap returns it now, standing stock still at the end of the bench.
Silence stretches between them as Ghost shucks his shoes off, leaning back on the bench with the thick trunks of his thigh spread, clinging fabric of his gym shorts outlines the damp bulge of his soft cock, resting on his full balls.
Neither of them move and Ghost prays to a god he doesn’t believe in for Soap to get on his knees and crawl over here, and he prays for Soap to fuck off into the showers before he does something he won’t be able to take back.
Soap peels his shirt off and Ghost stares at the straps of the bite guard that dig into his chest, sides, his neck, for too long seconds.
He’s possessed by how warm Soap’s sweat slick skin would feel under those straps, cock twitching to life at the thought of that hot tongue mouthing at the scent glands between his thighs, submerging himself in his alpha pheromones. Making a home between his thighs, he’d maneuver the omega however he pleases with a tight grip on his bite guard. And Soap would let him, the good fucking omega he is.
He’s right fucking there, and all it would take is a beckoning tilt of Ghost’s head for him to be there, kneeling, pawing and sucking him over his briefs. Where he fuckin’ belongs.
Something stirs down in the dark corners of his heart, gnaws and gnaws, and god, Ghost thinks he might be one of those knothead alphas that goes brainless for omega pussy after all.
Soap starts to wrestle out of the bite guard, and Ghost vanishes to the solace of a cold shower before he’d gotten one arm out of the straps.
None of that trepidation stops Ghost from stalking miserably back to his quarters, dropping himself into his sheets and spreading his legs, leaving just enough room to picture a well-built omega laid between them, nuzzling at his cock thickening with blood on the crook of his hip.
The way Soap would nose into the coarse hair at the base of his cock, pink tongue curling around his throbbing tip. He ruts wildly into his clasped hands for the first time in years outside of his mandatory rut. Ruts he’d take like a good fucking soldier, alone in his shite flat in Manchester for his full two weeks with the company of his hands and a silicone, omega fucktoy.
How soft that stupid fucking mohawk would feel in his hand as the omega throws his neck back into Ghost’s palm, the risen skin of his gland bared, begging Ghost to defile that pulsing, umarred skin. Their military grade blockers couldn’t cover up the unmistakable smell of his come on Soap’s skin after he’d be done with him, letting the entire base know he’d been claimed. He’d dip himself into that hot mouth, choke him on his knot just to see those pretty blue eyes spill over with unshed, desperate tears.
He clasps his throbbing knot with too rough hands, letting out a frustrated grunt as he milks himself with unpracticed hands, overcome by how Soap’s hands might feel, would they be soft, would his calloused palms catch on his knot? He spills over the edge with a mean grip on himself, like the pain will absolve him of what he’d just done.
The shame of tossing one off to thoughts of his subordinate only drives his hips forward again, into his warmed, sodden sheets. His canines dig into the meat of his palm so fiercely that blood seeps from it, adding to the mess of his soiled sheets. His chest heaves as come spurts from his cock, consumed wholly by the thought of how well that toned body would take his knot inside itself.
He lies in wait for dread to make itself through his limbs, but it doesn’t come.
***
Ghost and Soap are out early the next morning for an escort mission, joined by marines to ensure the transition goes smoothly. They’re moving from the helo to the site when Soap bumps his fist into Ghost’s shoulder, hanging back to let the others go ahead.
“Lt.” Soap shoots his arm out, sleeve rolled up to his elbow. An uncharacteristic pink rises on his cheeks when he flits his eyes from Ghost’s stare, lips drawn in that pout he can never seem to wipe off. His wordless question is posed. He wants me to scent him.
Ghost considers for a moment– he’s scented Gaz and Price countless times prior to missions, but this draws an unfamiliar tightness to his chest, emboldening him.
He yanks his own sleeve up, arm bypassing Soap’s extended one to gently but firmly rub the scent gland of his wrist against the bite guard wrapped around Soap’s neck, eyes creasing with satisfied amusement when Soap's lips part in shock.
Soap gapes at him, hand flying up to clasp where he’d been scented.
“Got a lot of bark in you, huh, Johnny.” Ghost says as he drops a fist onto Soap’s shoulder, mimicking Soap’s earlier action.
Soap’s shocked expression morphs into elation at the use of his new nickname, he bounds after Ghost with bitten off exclamations on his lips. He’s left to stare dopily as Ghost rattles out instructions to the soldiers lining the helo.
What Soap doesn’t need to know is that when he finishes his speech and ducks into the cockpit of the helo to speak ot the pilot, Ghost raises his wrist to his clothed nose, greedily sucking in the traces of Soap’s scent.
***
Ghost meets his own stare in the mirror, tracing the broken line of his nose, placid dark eyes wincing at the bunching, grotesque flesh around the keloid scars sitting on his jaw. The raised, pale, scar just bisecting his upper lip, his permanent snarl.
He smoothes the already perfect silver and brown hairs at his temple, staring impassively at the deep purplish skin under his eyes, so dark that they probably don’t need the eye black that he slathers on thickly beneath the masks he wears.
Finds refuge in the shape of his mother’s thin and chapped lips, watching them downturn at the sight of his father’s dimpled chin. His sunken, hickory brown eyes.
He hadn’t looked at himself properly in years and it’d been even longer that he’d recognized himself– a shoddy patchwork job, spare parts of all the people who’d taken him apart in the first place. A walking cadaver, if he stared for long enough perhaps the flesh would slough from his hollow bones.
The convention center fluorescents shine brighter, suffocating him in their clarity. He curses the metallic clink of the awards pinned above his heart, wrapping a loose hand around his wrist as he bows forward, threatening to fall into the inky blackness of his father’s eyes reflected before him.
His grip tightens, until he can feel the tendons shift and strain in their attempt to escape his grasp. He shuts his eyes and reaches for his plain black surgical mask. Instead of shattering his reflection with a clenched fist, he nearly yanks the door off its hinges in his swift exit to the convention center.
Their task force had been summoned for the award ceremony of some wanker who’d made himself a hero. How intrepid.
He’d arrived at the tail end of the ceremony, plans of arriving after it’d finished had been foiled by the rare opportunity of a bar present at one of these things. The snap of his dress shoes echo in the long hallway before opening up to the boisterous room, filled with alphas and betas of different ranks and stations of the SAS. And one omega.
Something tightens in his chest when his sights fixate on the form of his sergeant, leaning against the bar nearby the rest of their taskforce, clad in his clan’s tartan.
Ghost blinks, mind conjuring up the image of Soap stood in front of his mirror; the impish curve of his pout drawn lips as he’d stand back to pet at his kilt, preening at himself as he pushes back his perfectly groomed mohawk. Adjusting the straps of the leather sporran hanging on his hips and reaching behind himself to buckle the matching leather bite guard around his neck. Looking his best for unworthy eyes.
His molars settle into a shallow grind as he approaches the bar where his task force is seated, warily scanning the unfamiliar SAS and mercs in attendance. He settles into the seat beside Price, and recoils internally at Price's half drunk, raucous greeting, cursing himself for ever entertaining this idea. “Just the man I wanted to see,” Prices’ bourbon heavy breath fans over his cheek and he lets himself be jostled by his arm, roughly scenting his neck. Ghost strains from Price’s grip to greet Gaz with a nod.
“Wouldn't miss it for the world, Cap.” Ghost deadpans as he pulls his sleeve back, returning the gesture against the exposed wrist of his fellow alpha. Wouldn't miss this chance to get my eyes on Soap in formal dress. Price gestures to the barman and Ghost is delivered a bourbon neat before he can tell Price he’d only meant to stop in.
He hears Soap before he sees him, leaning forward to search down the bar for his sergeant. Price mimics his lean forward, obscuring Ghost’s view with an unreadable expression. Price sighs at Ghost’s furrowed brow and settles back in his chair to take a swig of his bourbon.
His eyes sear a path into the arm of the man slung around the Soap’s shoulder, curling tighter around him when Soap laughs openly at something that had been murmured too close to his body. Soap’s mottled cheeks turn into the chest of the stranger when the man replies with a quip of his own, and he’s tugged closer, so close that he may as well be in his fucking lap.
Sweeter, more pliant than Ghost had ever seen him. He’s fucking trollied.
Ghost’s lips raise from his teeth, curling in disgust behind the mask when he realizes the overwhelmingly unpleasant scent that he’d smelled is coming from the prick. The alpha prick.
No blockers? He scoffs aloud at the bollocks on this prick, inserting himself into his unit like he belongs there, like he knows Soap. The sound draws the omega's attention who looks perfectly content in the bend of the alpha’s arm.
Ghost’s blood runs cold, fingers threatening to snap the whiskey glass clean half, when his eyes fixate on his subordinates neck. Bare. The raised pillowy lump of flesh that is his mating gland is sitting pink and pretty, laid bare for all eyes in the fucking convention center.
The taste of iron hangs on the roof of his mouth as he stands. “Sergeant. With me,” he orders, unlooking, leaving his bourbon untouched. He doesn’t look back before rising from his seat to find the nearest exit.
The door clicks, locking behind Soap after he stumbles into the early evening light, squinting into the overcast and light rain. “Fancy a’ you gracing us with your presence,” Soap barks, disposition unaffected by Ghost’s unblinking stare.
“Soap,” Ghost warns, voice falling into that hollow tone he uses for problem soldiers.
Ghost wants to look away, avert his eyes from all that startling beauty he doesn’t deserve, but he can’t possibly help but marvel at the fading light allowing this omega to shine more, transformed into some beautiful, elusive creature that any smart man would search every corner of the earth to find. To be beside, to run their fingers through that silky hair, hold that powerful jaw in their hand. Bask in those peerless, baby blue omegean eyes. Eyes that should be on him.
He’s staring and he can’t find it within himself to give a fuck.
“Wha’? Loosen up, Always so serious, Lt. Was having a bit of a laugh with the lad in there, told me he’s from Munich,” Soap smiles, averting Ghost’s burning gaze as he gestures wildly to accompany his rambling start. Ghost can’t tell if he imagines the sneer he sees when Soap says, “He’s only on base for the weekend–”
“Isn’t proper for an omega to be without a bite guard,” Ghost says evenly, the bristle of his posture betraying his flat affect.
Soap scoffs, words blurring into one another, “Didn’t know ye were elected Lieutenant of the bite guard taskforce.”
Ghost steels his posture, ignoring the bait. “If I hadn’t come to this, you’d be in that muppet's lap now, purring as he tells you the seven ways he wants to knot you into next week.”
Soap pauses, before spitting it out, “Probably,” he squares his shoulders as he crosses his arms over his chest, jutting out his chin, “And I’d let him,” and Ghost moves.
He digs his leather gloves into Soap’s mohawk before his sloppy movements can catch up with him, and yanks, wrenching his neck onto his forearm.
“Disgusting fuckin’ slag,” he snarls, lips curling behind the mask at the sour and stale scent of scotch dripping from Soap’s pores, the sickening stench of that alpha fuck who dared to put hands on one of his men.
Now this is what he’d been expecting from an omega, the slut finally showing his true colors when any mediocre alpha so much as looked his way. Living up to his birthright, his true purpose of keeping an alpha’s bed warm while he squeals on cock.
“If I knew flirting with some knothead would get your hands on me I woulda done it ages ago,” Soap lolls out, urgency gone from his body as he relaxes into the cruel grip on his mohawk.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” Ghost says, pulling out a few hairs when Soap attempts to follow the rough yank of his arm, mouth falling open to allow a throaty moan to fall from his lips.
“Wish you would watch my mouth, sir,” Soap strains out, squirming until he can look Ghost directly in his eyes when he says his next words, “At least he had the balls to.”
A yelp tears from Soap’s throat as he’s forced to bend his knees, Ghost’s elbow digs cruelly into where his shoulder joins his unprotected neck. “Know your place, omega,” Ghost spits out. Soap bares his teeth instinctually, the hot tears of humiliation collecting on his lash line making his pretty eyes shine below his furrowed brows.
“Go on.” Ghost orders, and Soap drops heavily onto his knees for his lieutenant.
The pitch of his growl rises, knowing Soap had let him put him there. Wants to take all that obscene obedience inside Soap’s body and hide him away, for his eyes only.
“If it’s so offensive, sir, why don’t you cover it yourself,” Soap pants harshly as he attempts to bare his neck to Ghost, earning a hard yank down by his mohawk.
Ghost digs his fingers into the bottom of his dress shirt, breaking the seams of his leather gloves with his need to quell the itch, the itch to cover that pretty fucking neck in his fist. Grab at all of those taut tendons– his mouth throbs with the need to hide that pink, plump lump of flesh that’s been on view for the entire congregation. Tuck it inside himself. Tear him open and make him bleed with it, his transgression.
Soap’s harsh pants are visible in the cold air, teeth clacking as his body is wracked with a shudder, “I knew you’d show,” he says breathlessly, peering up at Ghost. Worshipful. As if he was somehow the fucking hero.
You’re a bad man, Simon. The voice of his father echoes in his mind, pinched and borderline hysterical– one of the last things his father had said to him from his hospital bed. Bad like me.
An animal noise sounds from his chest at the memory. What does it fucking matter when its gotten him an omega of all things, begging and sniveling at his feet.
“Get yourself like this with every alpha in full dress?” Ghost chides, tugging Soap’s head around by his mohawk.
“Only you,” Soap says with startling clarity. He paws hesitantly at the leg of Ghost’s trousers, guileless, blue eyes never leaving his face. His sporran is draped across his lap, lopsided, matched by his mussed mohawk. Swollen, bitten lips shining with spit.
Ghost realizes with a start that he doesn’t just want to stick his cock in omega pussy– knot Soap until he’s claimed and used, so thoroughly he’ll smell of his come for weeks.
He doesn't want anyone else to either.
Ghost’s body moves without thought, he curls forward, enveloping Soap’s form in his shadow. Soap’s body fills the space the alpha created, making himself smaller, tucking and bending himself into his presence– submitting, beautifully.
His thighs spread like he just can’t fucking help it. A pitiful mewl is dragged from his throat, like it’s painful, but Ghost knows better.
He’s frozen, draped over Soap’s body– need so sharp it hurts, like the twist of a knife in already rendered flesh, fingers in a gunshot wound searching for a lost piece of metal. It burns hot and agonizing in his chest, inciting reckless abandon in his heart.
His teeth snap uncontrollably, clacking audibly as the scent of Soap’s bloodied knees enters his nose, open mouth huffing through the mask as his fangs fully extend and incise his lips, filling his mouth with the taste of copper. And Ghost can only think of how different it’d taste, sating himself on Soap’s leaking wounds, splitting it further to properly feast on him– bend this little doll to his every whim.
Blood pools low in his belly, helpless to the betraying swell of his cock, to the temptation of peeling that leather back and furiously licking away any scent that isn’t his from Soap’s neck.
“C’mon. Let me get a taste, sir. Know you want me to,” Soap grapples drunkenly at his trousers, eyes glued to the bulge of Ghost’s straining cock. He sags forward and Ghost just can’t stop himself before his leg comes forward, encouraging Soap’s indecisive hands to sink into his thigh.
We can’t.
But he can– he can let Soap get his leather boot shiny with omega slick, let him rub that fat, dripping cunt on the steel toe of his boot. Ghost cocks his boot out, flat in the middle of Soap’s spread legs under his kilt, and it’s all the encouragement Soap needs to start weakly canting his hips forward, breath hitching at the shock of cold leather on his most intimate area.
He wishes he could light up just to put it out on Soap’s exposed skin, just to hear what pretty sounds he could pull from that pretty mouth. Mark him so terribly that the scar could heal perfectly and it would still be visible for all to see. The smell of his blistering flesh would be preferable to the putrid stench of that gormless maggot.
But he doesn’t. Doesn’t want to show his face.
His fingers tighten on Ghost’s trousers as his brows knit, features drawn up in bliss. A different kind of agony.
“Christ. Desperate for someone to be good for. Aren’t you, sweetheart,” Ghost leans down, looking expectantly at Soap’s lidded, hazy eyes, watching his lips part with a sharp intake of breath. He thumbs at Soap’s bottom lip.
“Yes, sir. Please, sir,” he breathes, voice thick as sin between the pitched little sounds spilling from his lips, and bloody hell he’s fucking drooling. His cock twitches at the use of his honorific, so engorged it’s painful against the zip of his trousers.
“Good thing you’re in my care now, Johnny boy.” Ghost says, voice choked with barely suppressed mirth. His care. His care being getting his pissed subordinate off on his fucking boot just to prove he can.
“Was wishin’ it was you, sir. Picturing he was you anyway. Your arm around me, your big hands,” he moans, strained with his aching want, his heaving breaths, “Touching me,” Heavier drops begin to fall from the sky, blood and rain are all Ghost can taste. He unwraps the iron grip Soap has on his trousers and brings Soap’s wrist to his nose and inhales. Chasing any hint of his scent he can through the mask, through the damn blockers and synthetic scent of his cologne.
He hopes, miserably, that Soap is fucked up enough to forget this happened at all.
The earthy, masculine smell of rain is more intense here, a hint of something sweet, sour like citrus makes his head spin, mind buzzing like he’d been the one to throw back a few scotches. He has to stop himself before he starts licking at the mask to get to Soap’s skin.
Ghost clasps his wrist in both hands, rubs it up on his mask, his leather gloves, bathing himself in Soap’s barely there scent. He thinks, mildly, that he’s perhaps lost his fucking mind. He dares to peer down at Soap through his fingers, observe that cocksure, satisfied hunger, his flushed cheeks and slack lips. That something, quiet and devastating shining in those beseeching, swirling eyes.
He knows if he lets him go off, lets himself watch that pleasure wash over his sergeant’s flushed face, he won’t be able to stop.
Just as Soap’s hips are beginning to lose their rhythm, Ghost tugs Soap to his feet by his stolen wrist. He ignores the disgruntled noise from Soap as he smoothes down the front of his jacket and kilt, plucking a moan from Soap when he places the sporran directly on the straining bulge of his cock. “Messy lad,” Ghost murmurs into the crook of his neck.
“Piss off, Lt.” Soap slurs embarrassedly into his shoulder, as if he hadn’t been humping his fucking boot a minute prior. He’s swaying and disheveled with wet, dark lashes fanning over his crimson cheeks, and Ghost has to look away.
“Better tidy up, Sergeant.” Ghost says teasingly while he flattens Soap’s roughened, haphazard mohawk. Lightly swatting his pitifully aroused face. “Wouldn’t want that alpha seeing you like this.” He pushes Soap into the red brick of the building with a hand on his chest.
“Or would you?” Bile rises in his throat with the knowledge that every man inside will see him like this– had seen him blushing and giggling in that alpha’s arms. He needs to get the fuck out of there, away from Soap’s gorgeous, pleasure-drunk face.
Every cell in his body screams for him to turn back, put that omega back where he belongs, claim him, claim him. He knows that if he turned around now, he would be truly lost.
***
Ghost does something unusual the next morning, one thing he’s never done, as far back as he can remember. He joins his men for breakfast in the mess.
He peers curiously at Soap, watches the worn brown leather peeking from under his blue tee move with him. Ghost ignores the churn of his stomach, deciding to be proud of his subordinate for obeying his orders. Too late for that, he thinks bitterly.
He finds himself enjoying that Soap is too out of it to rib him for joining them for the very first time, watching with mirthful eyes as he nurses his hangover with black coffee. Hand over his forehead as Price and Gaz chat animatedly about the rest of the night Ghost had not so sorely missed.
He watches the way Soap falters, slumps forward when Price gives him a solid shake of an arm around his shoulder, patting the sergeant's hanging head as he pulls away, and he has to suppress the involuntary growl rising in his throat. Denies the venomous jealousy that curls up his throat at the contact. He can’t tell if it’s remaining embers from the previous night or if he’d actually fucking lost it.
He decides that he must have fucking lost it somewhere along the way when he finds himself trailing Soap around base all day.
Keeps vigil as Soap’s practices his knife throws in the armory, met with a raised brow and half smile when Soap turns, polishing the tip of the knife with his tee, raised enough to see a sliver of that toned stomach.
He watches, Soap puts on a show, and neither of them make a move to do anything about it.
Ghost crawls to his barracks after spending the day in the shadows of every room Soap is occupying. He falls into bed, rolling restlessly for hours into his sheets– haunted by visions of those hypnotizing, pleasure drunk omegean eyes. Hours of ignoring the image of sweat pouring off Soap as he’d toiled in the gym earlier, failing to ignore that heavy weight between his legs, boxers clinging to half-chub he’d been sporting the entire fucking day. He wrestles off his long sleeve and tries to remember the last time he’d felt this fucking hot.
He has to huff at his own wrist to make sure his rut hadn’t fronted through the fuckin’ military grade suppressants. Burning heat creeps from under his mask to color his chest with splotches of red. He holds a hand tight to the bottom of his mask, thrashing in the tight grip of his self control.
Just as he relents and gives his hips an experimental roll, tossing his head back in how fucking good it is to get some relief on his neglected cock, he hears a barely there sound come from his door.
He stills, cursing whatever tosser would bother him at this hour and tucks his cock up into the band of his sweatpants before peeling himself off the bed and swinging the door open.
A young solider stands at attention in his doorway, practically quaking with nerves and it almost has Ghost telling him to fuck off before he opens his mouth so he can get back to what he was in the middle of. “Captain Price would like to see you in his office, sir,” he shuts the door swiftly, clipping off the soldier’s formality and leans heavily back against it.
Brilliant.
***
Ghost pushes into Price’s office, lets his shoulders sag into the familiar smell of old wood and cigar smoke, posture straightening when he realizes the object of his constant depraved thoughts is seated across from Price. “Ah, my favorite duo. Back together again.” Price says, oddly fucking chipper. He waves a hand to the empty chair next to Soap. Ghost takes it, with a curt nod to the both of them.
Ghost scowls behind the mask, not missing the satisfied grin on Price’s face. They’d not spoken a word concerning the scene at the ceremony and Ghost doesn't plan on changing that any time soon.
“Alright lads, we got a hit. We’ve got intel on two of Hassan's men and I need you two on it.” Ghost resents Price’s laughing eyes as he lights up a cigar and tips his hat forward, enveloped in the swirls of smoke when he leans back in his chair.
He tosses a manila folder onto the desk which Ghost snatches, opening it to begin memorizing the faces of the two men pictured in the file.
“This is time sensitive. We need to cut off their contact within 6 hours of touch down or we will be enjoying quite the fireworks show in Anchorage. Are we clear?” He asks, looking between the two of them for any signs of protest.
“Whereabouts.” Ghost asks.
“Yukon Valley, day after tomorrow. Better bring your sunnies boys, hear the mountains are beautiful this time of year.”
Ghost had spent time there before, he rifles through the dregs of his memory for the hunting trip he’d gotten in on soon after he joined the military. “This will be short and sweet, men. In and out. I expect you two back at my desk the dawn after tomorrow.”
Price sighs heavily, satisfied with the men’s lack of questioning. “Dismissed, Sergeant.” He says. Soap starts in his seat, giving Ghost a peering glance before rising in his chair and giving them both a theatrical “Yes, sir.” and a mock of a salute before closing the door behind him.
Silence stretches between them as Price reaches into a drawer to pull out two clinking tumbler glasses and a bottle of Blanton’s, pouring them two fingers of the amber liquid each. “Well,” Price sighs heavily as he reclines into the worn leather upholstery of his office chair, “I don't think you’re in need of a lesson, lad. But don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
“Rich coming from you.” Ghost’s eyes crease behind the mask. Price's relationship with their beta sergeant is an open secret, fraternization be damned. Ghost downs the whiskey in one gulp in hopes that the familiar, smoky burn would soothe his frayed nerves. The incessant grinding of his teeth. “Don’t worry old man, he’s in my hands now.”
“That’s what I'm afraid of.” Price barks, the truth of his expression shaded under the brim of his hat. Ghost pauses, frowning when he realizes he’s waiting for something. He stares, unmoored and yearning despite himself, needing to be certain that this is something his pack approves of.
“Don’t care what you get into, Simon. You better bring my men back in one piece. Talking about you, too.” Ghost nods, unmoving. Price sighs, suckling on his cigar once more before straightening his posture in his chair. “You’ll be good for him.” Price says severely, in his Captain’s voice. It’s an order.
He gives Ghost the nod he’d been waiting for– it'll be all the approval he’ll get, and it'll be all he needs. He rises from the haggard leather chair and speaks into the door before exiting, “Yes, sir.”
***
Ghost steps out into the night and relishes in the early spring air washing over his bourbon overheated skin, lips quirking behind the mask when he hears a gruff, Scottish drawl from behind him, “Aye, my shadow follows me even in the dark.”
His eyes follow the cherry of Soap’s cigarette as it rises to his lips, falling on the unblinking glint of Soap’s lidded eyes. He scans the line of trees on the grounds, the lit path that loops around the perimeter of the base.
It’s so quiet out here, the still of the early spring night, the silence of the woods only a few meters away. Ghost tries not to dwell on the thought that this is where Soap belongs, away from all that noise, the violence.
He turns from those dark woods, drinking in the sight of that well crafted, beautiful piece of leather curling around the neck of his sergeant. The straps running under the neck of his tee, digging indents into that tight body. Keeping it safe. He cocks his chin forward, meeting Soap’s stare, “S’ a good look on you, Soap.”
Liar.
His nail beds itch to peel the offending leather from Soap’s skin, rip and tear until it’s shreds at his feet, something wretched and violent in his heart screams to let me see it. He’s suddenly terribly grateful for the salvation of military grade blockers that conceal Soap’s scent.
A smile cracks through Soap’s shuttered expression, shoulders slumping as if he’d been delivered long awaited good news. “Thank you, sir,” he thumbs at the leather, usual cheek gone from his tone. Ghost thinks distantly that this might be the first time he’d complimented the soldier.
He steps forward and grasps Soap’s wrist in his hand to pluck the cigarette from his fingers. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, fixating on the saliva damp filter.
“These are bad for you, you know.” Ghost says, bringing the cigarette to his lips and holding it in his teeth. He licks at that saliva saturated filter, gives it a kiss before releasing the smoke with a breath. “What if I wanna be bad?” Soap replies, frowning, rolling the fingers that were holding that cigarette between the fingers of his other hand.
Ghost could almost laugh at Soap’s genuine pout, the jut of his bottom lip. He scoffs instead,“Wouldn’t believe ya.” He steps closer, gazing down at his sergeant through the wisps of cigarette smoke. “I think you wanna be good. Want to be real good.”
Good for me, Ghost thinks gloomily, stomach clenching and turning with nausea at how fucking right that feels. “I’ll see you tomorrow for mission prep,” he spits out before Soap can muster a reply and grinds the cigarette butt into the gravel. He pushes back into the offensive florescent light of the rec room, away from the quiet of the night into the clamor of soldiers at ease.
He doesn't give into the urge to look back at the mohawked silhouette of his sergeant. The thorn that had edged its way between his ribs, shedding drops of blood with every throb of his beating heart.