Chapter Text
Soap’s hands are tied behind his back, bound to the back posts of the chair, snug enough to pull just a little in his shoulders. He could easily get out of this, with some twists of his hands, or a hard pull forward—but he doesn’t want to, not this time.
He is almost completely naked, everything having been meticulously stripped off him (slowly, so fuckin’ slowly) save for his briefs, which are feeling tighter and more restricting than they have ever been. A small part of his brain almost wishes he were gagged right now, so he’d have something else to focus on, but instead his jaw is clenched so tight that he’s starting to feel it in his fucking sinuses, staring dead ahead, trying his damnedest not to twitch, because he’s not going down without a fight.
The fight, however, is rapidly swaying away from his favor. Ghost is sitting, perched on the edge of the bed, fiddling idly with a knife— one of his favorites, Soap’s stupid horny brain focuses on—the tip of it pressed against a gloved hand as he spins it. Slowly, menacingly, also refusing to break eye contact. He’s in his full tactical gear, nothing in the way he sits there revealing anything about how he’s feeling; even Soap, who knows him well, knows him so much more than anyone else has ever gotten to know him, can’t tell if this is affecting him even remotely as much as it’s affecting him , and that somehow makes it even more delicious.
The only way Soap can tell that this is as good for him is the way he watches. Ghost is peering at him through his mask, head tilted slightly to the side, heavy, painted eyes slowly raking over Soap’s body whenever he takes a particularly deep breath to steel himself. Soap breathes slow and tries to let some of the tension out of his shoulders, and Ghost’s eyes break the eye contact to give him a good once over. “Y’alright there?” he asks, voice low and calm, as it always is.
“Fuckin’ up to high doh,” he mutters through gritted teeth.
“English, Mactavish,” Ghost sighs. The way he says it sends heat spike right down Soap’s spine, nearly making his thigh twitch with anticipation. Nearly is practically like fully for Ghost, because even though Soap can’t see his mouth, he can tell by the way the fabric shifts that he’s smiling under there, amused.
“This is exactly what I wanted to be doing with my night,” Soap continues, because this is the game they play, and he knows what his part is, “tied up to a fuckin’ chair in your flat for you to, what? Look at? ”
Ghost clicks his teeth. His knife doesn’t falter. “You could leave.”
“I could leave,” Soap scoffs, a rueful smirk on his lips, “Yeah? And what, leave here with my cock practically out for everyone to see? What kind of look would that be for me?”
Ghost hums, like he’s considering the image. He tilts his head to the other side, eyes tracking slowly down Soap’s body, and Soap swallows. “Mm. Pretty unbecoming of you.”
Soap rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Understatement of the century.”
Finally, Ghost stops spinning his knife and, even though they both know he doesn’t need to look to sheathe it, he looks away from Soap to put it away. He takes his time standing up and crossing the room to approach Soap, getting a finger under his chin to tilt his head up before rubbing his thumb over the side of his chin. “I certainly wouldn’t protest.”
Soap raises his eyebrows quickly. “Oh yeah, bet you’d love that.”
Ghost hums, low and grumbling in his chest, and says nothing. All he does is slide his hand down the column of Soap’s throat, grip adjusting so he can press gently on either side, his hand warm, strong. If he just kept going, Soap would face the same fate as so many others, but Ghost’s hand doesn’t waver, just holds. It makes Soap’s hips jerk forward before he can stop it, and Ghost’s chest rumbles again with a chuckle. “Clearly not as much as you.”
Soap grinds his teeth together once again and hisses, “Fuck you.”
“You don’t mean that,” Ghost says, the hint of a smile in his voice. It should sound demeaning, but it just makes Soap’s entire body throb, his head slowly feeling lighter, his fingers flexing in their bind, taking any movement that he can get away with.
Ghost doesn’t stop. He knows Soap can take it, has felt so much worse in way less pleasurable situations—after a few more seconds Soap tugs his arms instinctively against the rope, leaning into the hold even though his entire body wants to get away, his vision slowly tunneling. Ghost pushes it just a little longer before he lets up, Soap gasping for air as his head slumps forward, entire body moving with the effort to stop his head spinning. He’s barely gotten enough time before Ghost’s hand is in his hair and yanking his head back, making Soap groan and meet his eye.
“That better?”
“Oh, loads,” Soap spits, barely repressing the urge to roll his eyes.
Ghost chuckles and pats Soap’s cheek—a little too hard, although it doesn’t make Soap flinch, which is probably what he was going for. “Good.”
Soap isn’t quite sure how long he’s been sitting here. He feels like he’s been hard for damn near his entire life, and Ghost sure as hell isn’t letting him get off for a while more. Sometimes Soap’s able to convince him to fuck him fast, quick, generally somewhere inappropriate, because it feels like nowhere’s appropriate sometimes. Right now is a rare moment, and fittingly Ghost is in rare form—which would be funny, because Ghost is in work mode, which is never rare for him. But when it’s focused solely on Soap? It’s so, so overwhelming.
He must’ve unfocused for a few seconds, because before Soap can even notice that something’s happening, Ghost has pulled his briefs down just enough to get a—gloved, holy fucking shit—hand around his achingly hard dick.
Soap sucks in a harsh breath as his heels grind into the carpet while Ghost strokes nice and slow up his length. “Can’t—fuckin’ hurts with your gloves.”
“Hmm.” Ghost lets go of Soap’s cock just long enough to pull his glove off (just the left one, shit that shouldn’t be so hot) and immediately goes back to stroking him. He’s sitting in a chair opposite him now—when did that even get there—one of his thighs between Soap’s spread legs, somehow too close and not close enough. The friction on his dick is still rough but at least not as bad, and he grits his teeth while he tries not to twitch away. “How’re we doin’, Johnny?” Ghost asks.
The use of his name makes his thigh twitch, and he breathes out a sigh. “Fine. Could be better, but that’s unlikely at this rate.”
“‘Atta boy, now you’re getting it,” Ghost says, and the praise goes straight to Soap’s dick, leaking a thick bead of precum onto Ghost’s fist that makes the man chuckle. “Oh, someone’s excited tonight.”
“Can it,” Soap pants, pulling against the rope when Ghost’s hand smooths over the head of his cock, collecting his precum to help with the friction.
He gives a punched out moan when Ghost grips hard at the base, to which Ghost shushes him, almost laughing as he does. “You don’t have to fight me, you know. Be a lot easier for you if you didn’t.”
Soap takes another deep breath and shakes his head. “I know how you get when you win. Can’t have a sore winner like you around.”
The hand loosens and starts stroking again slowly, and whenever Ghost pulls down he squeezes, which makes Soap dig his teeth into his bottom lip, head tilted forward so Ghost can’t see him struggle. He, of course, knows that Soap’s putting up a fight, but it only eggs him on more, keeping his pace slow and deliberate, making Soap struggle against his binding.
“Think you like the fight, Soap,” Ghost says, ever-so-slightly picking up the pace, moving so his other hand cups Soap’s chin and makes him look up at him again. “When’s the last time you just let yourself go, huh?”
“Almost got myself killed,” Soap grits through his teeth, opening his eyes when the hand under his chin doesn’t move away, catching Ghost’s ever-watchful eye.
Ghost cocks his head. “D’you think I’m gonna kill you?”
“At this rate, you might as well do.”
Ghost smooths his finger under the ridge of Soap’s cock, making the man take a shuddering breath in. “Do you trust me?”
With my life. Implicitly. “Why else would I be tied up to a fuckin’ chair?”
Ghost chuckles and twists his fist around the head. He’s treating this like just another thing he has to take care of—cleaning his guns, sharpening his knives, and teasing Soap. Soap’s hips twitch slightly forward (curse his stupid body for betraying him), and the gloved hand moves down to grip Soap’s hip. “Did you get ready like I asked, Sergeant?”
He swallows a moan and nods.
“With your words, Mactavish,” Ghost admonishes, his hand picking up pace again, so close to something that could get Soap off.
Soap fixes Ghost with his best glare. “Aye, L.T. In the shower. Didn’t—” he grits his teeth against the growing heat, the urge to fuck into Ghost’s calloused hand to just push him over the edge. “Didn’t touch.”
“Oh, good boy,” Ghost practically purrs, hand showing no sign of slowing.
Soap feels damn near out of his mind with it, letting his head fall back and his eyes slam shut again, wrists shifting in the knot to give himself some pressure elsewhere, something else to focus on except Ghost.
His gloved hand slides to cup the back of his head and gently coax him back to upright, murmuring, “See? You do want to trust me.”
“I don’t—” Soap starts, and as soon as that first syllable is out of his mouth Ghost is pulling away completely, the mounting pleasure dropping off into queasy, jangling desperation so fast that Soap lets out a punched out moan before he can stop it. His hips buck up against the air, whole body straining, cock bouncing obscenely against his lower stomach, smearing wetness there. It’s fucking humiliating.
“Edge of the chair,” Ghost says, producing something from a pocket that Soap can’t help but huff out a laugh at.
“Did you really keep a plug in there?”
In his mind’s eye, Ghost is blushing underneath the mask. Soap has no way to prove this, but it makes the entire thing just a little bit funnier. “It’s tactical.”
That makes Soap laugh quietly and shake his head, although he does listen and cant his hips for Ghost. “Fuckin’ ridiculous.”
Ghost chuckles too as he leans forward in the chair. He must’ve had lube in there too (which Soap has half a mind to make fun of him for later) because when the tip of the plug presses against him it’s tacky and cold, making Soap suck in a breath between his teeth.
“Shh, relax,” Ghost hums, petting his ungloved hand over Soap’s thigh, and Soap sighs out a breath and nods to himself as he does. “Excellent.”
He does his best not to move while Ghost presses it in slowly; it’s not big by any means, just long and thick enough to give him a pleasant amount of stretch, and he grunts when the base of it is pressed flush against his ass. His dick gives an interested twitch where it lay, angry and red, and all Ghost does is swipe his thumb over the smear of precum on his stomach, just barely brushing against his cock, enough to make him twitch.
Soap’s hips jerk hard when it starts vibrating, Ghost pressing hard on his lower stomach to keep him from doing so. Soap throws his head back with a grunt as he tries to pull his wrists apart, feet scrambling for some kind of purchase on the ground. “Oh my fucking God,” he gasps, and Ghost laughs infuriatingly.
“Probably could just leave ya here like this, mm?” He asks, so low, somehow lower than he already speaks, the noise ratting pleasantly in Soap’s ears. “Don’t even have to touch that cock of yours to make you come for me.”
“Please sir,” Soap gasps, the honorific slipping out before he has half a mind to stop it, and the noise Ghost makes is going to live in his head every single time he says the fucking word now. Ghost groans and it’s the most wonderful sound Soap has ever heard—his bare hand smooths across his lower stomach, like he could feel the vibration through him.
“Please what? ” Ghost asks harshly.
Soap doesn’t even know what. “Let me see you,” is what comes out of his mouth, and if his eyes weren’t screwed shut he would see the surprised look that flashes in Ghost’s eyes when he does. “Come on. ”
The hand leaves Soap’s stomach for a moment and, when he can manage to open his eyes, the part of Ghost’s mask that covers his mouth is discarded, presumably by taking the hard mask off and shucking it across the room before putting the other back on before Soap could look. It’s absolutely ridiculous what even seeing half his face does to him—his spit-shiny and pink lips, the hard line of his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. It shouldn’t be as sexy as it is, but it only makes Soap groan when Ghost leans in to kiss him.
Their kisses are always rough, fast, only mashing lips and gnawing teeth and frantic tongues. Ghost tastes like sweat, sometimes like blood, rarely like the paint he uses on his face. It’s the only time that Ghost actually shows how affected he is by Soap, kissing him like he needs to devour him. It’s all-encompassing and so, so hot. Ghost makes a pleased noise against his lips and Soap’s too-whiny moan echoes him, arms straining more and more. He wants to hold his face, feel the hard press of the edges of the mask and the warmth of his skin.
“You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” Soap gasps when they break apart, Ghost’s breath hot and damp against his lips.
“Never,” Ghost whispers back.
It’s too much of a confession for either of them right now, but it still makes Soap groan low and long, hips arching towards a relief he knows won’t come.
“See how easy that was,” Ghost whispers, ungloved hand now cupping Soap’s cheek, “let me take care of you, Johnny.”
He has. Ghost has taken care of him so much—he cares so much, would never leave him behind, always had his back, he knows Ghost would burn the world just to make sure he was okay. And it’s fucking terrifying to know that that feeling is mutual, because Soap would tear people apart for Ghost, has and will. Soap nods and gasps out, “Please.”
Ghost’s hand leaves his face for a second so he can take off his other glove, wrapping that hand around Soap’s dick and jerking quickly. When Soap moans and tries to lean forward to kiss Ghost again, there’s a hand on his shoulder pressing him back in the chair hard , and that only makes him moan louder. Soap’s thighs try to slam shut but Ghost shifts in his own chair to get both of his legs between, spreading his own just enough to keep Soap’s wide open. He has nowhere to go but further into the pleasure—it’s searing, his orgasm so close to the surface, the bright burn in his thighs as he’s forced to keep them open, the matching burn in his shoulders from keeping them so tense this whole time.
He’s about to say some kind of warning but of course Ghost doesn’t need one to know that he’s about to come—his hand pulls away lightning-fast but the plug stays vibrating and Soap is too proud to scream, but he groans low and long, hips fighting against Ghost’s strong hand, cock pulsing desperately. He’s panting like he just ran a damn marathon, and Ghost is still sitting there quietly. The only thing that gives him away is that he’s breathing heavily, too.
“You fuckin’—” Soap tries to spit out, but Ghost’s hand is back around his cock, starting that brutal pace right where he left off and his entire body pulls taut as a bowstring. Ghost has to put his whole shoulder into pressing his hips back down on the chair and the move forces a moan out of Soap’s lips. He’s never felt so vulnerable in his life. If Ghost wanted to kill him right now, he would be none the wiser. But he’s okay with it.
This time, when Soap’s thigh starts shaking, all the sensations disappear entirely—Ghost doesn’t just pull his hand back, he gets fully out of the chair, presses something to make the vibration stop, and takes a lap around Soap’s twitching and begging body. Through the pounding in Soap’s ears he can hear the sharp sound of a knife being unsheathed right before it slices effortlessly through the rope keeping his hands together. “Stretch,” Ghost commands, and Soap does, clasping his hands together and stretching his arms over his head, humming at the couple pops his shoulders give as he does.
“What, just gonna make me jerk myself off now?” Soap says. There’s no malice behind his words now, only a vague sense of disappointment.
Which quickly disappears when Ghost says, “Hands and knees, Soap.”
Oh, yeah. He can do that just fine. His knees give a little wobble when he stands up—it’s very odd to be walking with a plug in, and he must make a face at the movement, because Ghost snickers quietly. Soap shoots him a look, and Ghost presses his lips together and holds his hands up in surrender.
When he climbs onto the bed and gets into the position he has to bite back a moan; the angle of the plug is new, and he has even less friction on his dick this way (if you consider his dick maybe touching his stomach friction, which was gracious at best). He slides down onto his elbows when Ghost smooths both of his hands over his ass, pulling his briefs down with him, the man humming contently before pressing his fingers against the base of the plug. That’s the only warning Soap gets before he’s pulling the plug out and pressing three fingers in; the stretch is sudden and so good that Soap groans and drops his forehead onto the bed. His legs are trapped by his stupid fucking briefs, that cruel bastard. He thrusts lazily a few times, Soap leaning his hips back on every thrust, Ghost making no move to correct him.
“You don’t come until I do. Copy?” Ghost finally says, the sound of rattling metal and unzipping meaning that he’s not taking off his armor, holy shit, he’s just pulling his dick out of his pants. Soap wishes he could see what they looked like, but the image is enough to make his cock leak wetly onto the sheets underneath him.
“Copy, sir,” he replies, and he feels the bed dip behind him as Ghost gets a knee up on it for leverage.
He pulls his fingers out (and chuckles at the low whine that escapes Soap when he does) before he maneuvers Soap to an angle that he can still have one of his feet on the floor. Suddenly, again without warning, he’s sinking into Soap, pressing in deep with a single movement, and Soap nearly yells with it, pleasure crashing into him.
“Holy shit,” Soap pants, and Ghost’s fingers dig hard into his hips as he starts up another brutal pace. Not only is he thrusting forward, he’s pulling Soap back to meet him, the slap of Soap’s skin against the fabric of his pants dull but deafening, metal rattling with Ghost’s effort.
“There we go,” Ghost sighs, voice breathy around the edges, a little frayed because of the exertion. “Like a good boy, mm?”
Soap moans louder than he’s willing to admit, hands twisting into the sheets to give him something to hold on to. He’s never come without someone touching his dick but the way Ghost is fucking him is getting him scarily close—panic shoots down his spine at the thought of disobeying him, and it’s so sudden that Ghost must notice, because he slows down just a touch and smooths a hand across Soap’s lower back.
“Alright?”
Soap grunts. He can feel his ears burning with a blush. “Don’t wanna come before you, sir.”
It’s Ghost’s turn to give a helpless groan, his thrusts now slow but sure, still petting over any piece of skin that he can reach. “Good. ”
The slow pace only lasts a few more thrusts before Ghost is leaning more of his weight on Soap to reach down and grab his hair, yanking back roughly and forcing his head off the bed. It strains hard in his neck and forces a sharp moan from Soap’s lips, and suddenly Ghost is fucking him into the bed hard, using his height to his advantage, just taking what he wants from him—and in this moment, Soap would give it all to him. He already basically is; presenting himself fully and openly to Ghost, letting the other man practically support his entire body weight with just the hands on his hair and his hip.
“Please,” Soap chokes out, hands scratching on the sheets for lack of anything better to do, “fuck, sir—”
Ghost fucking growls and leans forward even more to force Soap’s head down onto the bed, letting him twist to the side so his cheek is squished into the mattress. “Greedy bastard, aren’t ya?”
“Yes,” Soap groans, eyes screwing shut. When he opens his mouth Ghost presses harder and it forces his jaw to stay open, so now he’s drooling with it. Each punched out noise gets half-swallowed by the bed, and Soap is positive he’s going to come just like this, completely untouched for the past God knows how long, around Ghost’s cock if he doesn’t do something about it. His brain is hot, stupid mush, but he still manages to get out, “Yes, come on, give it to me, come on. ”
And Lord does he. Ghost is panting heavily now, occasionally grunting on an exhale, fucking into Soap hard enough that the bed is creaking with the effort, one fully booted foot still on the ground. Ghost is already silent, but somehow he goes even quieter when he’s close—Soap knows him well enough that he knows it’s coming. His quick, even pace is getting just slightly more erratic, the hand pressing him into the bed slips just slightly on one of his thrusts. His breath stops completely for a split second before he’s fucking Soap through his orgasm, a short, cut-off moan escaping.
Ghost moves his hand from Soap’s hip to his weeping cock and it only takes three strokes before Soap is following him over the edge, whining and trembling with it, trying to both thrust forward into it and escape it altogether. Ghost grunts behind him—whether it’s arousal or overstimulation Soap isn’t sure, because he’s pretty sure his brain has melted out of his ears.
For a silent moment, there is only the sound of both of their labored breathing. Ghost has stopped pressing Soap into the bed and is now just supporting him upright enough so he doesn’t collapse into a pool of his own cum, waiting for him to stop twitching so he can pull out. When he can finally feel his fingers again, Soap reaches behind him to try and slap Ghost, but mostly just flaps an arm vaguely in the air. “Fuck off me, c’mon.”
Ghost chuckles and does as he’s told—he pulls out slowly and gives Soap’s ass a gentle smack when he makes a short uncomfortable noise. When Soap flops onto his back towards the foot of the bed, Ghost slips his (supremely stretched out now, thanks a lot) briefs off his legs and tosses them towards a corner of the room that might have the trash can. Soap throws an arm over his eyes and focuses on catching his breath. “You must be sweatin’ buckets in that thing.”
“Nothing I’m not used to,” Ghost says. His voice is further away, presumably in the bathroom, and sure enough, the next thing Soap feels is a warm, wet cloth wiping across his stomach. “Hips up, come on.”
“Gave me a fucking ab workout,” Soap grumbles as Ghost finishes cleaning him up.
The top sheet is wrestled out from under him (“Fuck you if you think I’m getting up to help.") and sweats are thrown at Soap for him to slip on. When he opens his eyes to do so, Ghost is in much more casual clothing, and even though the paint around his eyes is gone, that shitty fabric mask is back on his face.
“Take it off, prick,” Soap scoffs as he gets the pants on and shuffles up the bed to get comfortable, “not like I haven’t seen your ugly mug before.”
“Is this how you talk to all your hookups?” Ghost chuckles as he climbs into the bed beside Soap.
“Only the stupid ones,” Soap mutters. He reaches for the edge of the mask, right at Ghost’s collarbone. He hesitates, just for a millisecond, just long enough for Ghost to stop him. He doesn’t. He carefully pulls the thing up and off, and (just because he can) presses a quick kiss to Ghost’s lips.
“Was just doing it to piss you off anyway,” Ghost mutters, taking the mask out of Soap’s hand and setting it on the bedside table.
Soap rolls his eyes and settles down onto the pillows. “You don’t have to work to do that.”