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Soap yanks Ghost into the blown-open side door of an abandoned warehouse and turns off the mic around his neck.
“Off,” he says, and gestures for Ghost to do the same.
Ghost scowls and obeys, and as soon as they’re both safely off comms he says, “Can’t do my fuckin’ job if they won’t do theirs. Fuckin’ bollocks is what that was…sir.” It’s dim in the warehouse, everything gray cement and dark steel and only lit by a dusty skylight, but Ghost doesn’t take off his sunglasses. He scuffs his boot into the ground and continues, “You should’ve backed me. I was right.”
“Can’t talk back to me like that on comms,” Soap says. He pulls a cigarette out of his breast pocket, lights it, and takes a long drag, intending to smoke it as fast as possible.
“I was right,” Ghost repeats. Soap just knows he’s staring him down behind those glasses. It’d be intimidating to anyone else, he’s sure.
And, off the record, Ghost was right.
But Soap isn’t dealing with the machinations of right versus wrong, of justice or equality or merit-based rewards. That goalpost was already crossed years ago when they started the 141 and recruited only the best. Now Soap knows that consistent results come from strict respect of hierarchy. He knows that it doesn’t matter if Ghost is right. What matters is that he does what he’s told when he’s told to do it, and that he doesn’t threaten the integrity of their highly unprofessional working relationship by testing him unchallenged in front of others.
Ghost knows that, too. Though his anger management issues get in the way enough times that he could fuckin’ fool Soap.
Soap finishes half the cigarette and holds it out to Ghost. Ghost wavers, clinging to pride, and then he folds, rolling his mask up to his nose and taking the cigarette in hand. Soap watches him smoke it, lingers on his lips and his deft hands and the way the smoke looks curling around the lower half of his face in the dim light. But he smokes it just as efficiently as Soap did, and then grinds the butt out on the cement floor with his toe before Soap can get too distracted.
“Better?” Soap asks.
“No,” Ghost says, and spits on the floor.
Soap doesn’t smile, but not without considerable effort.
Because Soap undoubtedly finds his lieutenant’s hot temper relatable. It’s just that Soap’s trying to fill in for Price in his absence, and Price’s temper was contained, almost unnervingly so…until it wasn’t, doled out in rare, productive, world-shattering bursts. Ghost comparatively wears his anger on his sleeves all the time. He’s angrier and…brattier…than Soap or Price ever were.
“So you really can’t handle being questioned, then?” Ghost asks.
Soap checks his wristwatch as if he’s bored, but he’s really counting out the hours to exfil. They’re an easy half mile walk from the RV point. And rather than sit around and wait, he’d like to turn around Ghost’s infamous shitty attitude.
“Thought you had thicker skin than that, sir,” Ghost says.
It’s the only way Soap’s found to ease Simon’s temper that works. To remind him that he’s not in charge and that his opinions aren’t valued—around others—and that he’s beholden to his captain first.
“Better not be getting soft on me,” Ghost continues, unchecked, and pretends to stop paying attention to Soap since Soap is pretending to not pay attention to him. He leans down to stretch his hamstrings, and the skin-tight material of his pants—bloody leggings, really—flexes with him, doing nothing to conceal the fat curves of his thighs and hips and arse.
Soap knows, for all his bitching, Ghost likes being put in his place. By his captain, at least.
Soap doesn’t do it because Ghost likes it, though. Of course not. He does it because it works and because it would be criminal to not do something about those thighs, those unchecked remarks, the angry little smile under his mask.
When Soap’s certain there’s enough time to break his lieutenant down and build him back up the way he likes him best, he pushes Ghost into the cement wall and grabs his exposed chin. Ghost scowls more when Soap moves him, left and right, and when Soap appraises his bad attitude and his bared teeth like he’s deciding whether he’s a feral dog worth the risk to pet.
“Need ye to be good for me next time,” Soap says and slides his grip to Ghost’s neck instead. He doesn’t squeeze, but he holds him still, palm flat to the ribbed column of his throat. “You’re always fuckin’ mouthin’ off. I’d discharge anyone else who talked to me like that.”
Simon looks small pinned there in his oversized jacket, his sunglasses, his skin-tight balaclava. Those blasted tactical leggings, or whatever the fuck they are. Soap thumbs at Ghost’s lower lip with his other hand, and Ghost’s tongue darts out to lick him. Like he’s already softened a bit, just from being caged against the wall and talked down to.
“Can’t have the others thinkin’ you’re special,” Soap says.
Ghost scoffs at that, and Soap pushes the pad of his thumb into his mouth, and Ghost bites down somewhere between moderately to severely way too fucking hard.
Soap swears, yanks his hand away, and backhands his lieutenant across the face. He doesn’t put too much force behind it, not wanting to leave a visible mark. And Ghost’s clearly expecting it, wanting it, so he goes easy, head snapping against the cement wall and sunglasses flying across the warehouse and tongue peeking out again to soothe where he must be bleeding into his mouth.
Soap should’ve known tempering him wouldn’t be that easy.
“Aren’t I, though?” Ghost asks, grinning again, holding his quickly reddening cheek. Soap can see his eyes, now, and they’re anything but docile. “Special. Aye, captain?” Soap wants to lick the blood out of his smirking mouth and get on his knees and eat him out until he can’t talk back, until he’s no longer smiling, until his eyes betray nothing but obedience.
Soap doesn’t want for much in life, actually. Just the occasional cigarette, a job well-done, and Simon fighting his fourth or fifth time coming on his captain’s face.
But instead, because Ghost needs to be tamed, first, he steels his expression and says, “On yer knees, lieutenant.”
Ghost’s being an insubordinate little shit, but not enough to keep from buckling at the knees on his captain’s order, getting down so fast Soap’s dick fills in his cargos. He shoves them down with his boxers to his knees, strokes his cock a few times over Ghost’s face, and Ghost licks the blood that keeps pooling off his split-open lip.
“Good,” Soap says, and releases his cock, lets it hang heavy. “Right where you belong.”
Something new and unplaceable flashes through his eyes, then, but before Soap can worry about it Ghost ducks his head underneath, letting Soap’s ballsack and the length of his cock rest on his face. A fucking gorgeous sight, really; pre-cum leaking on his cheek, his mask, his mouth open and tongue out to taste Soap’s sweat.
It’s distracting enough that Soap doesn’t even flinch when Ghost disengages, ducks down further, and sinks his teeth into the hard muscle of Soap’s left thigh.
“Fucking Christ.” Soap hisses and grabs Ghost by the hair under his mask, pulls him off. He broke skin, certainly, but there’s not any blood, nor is there any remorse in his sly grin, even when he sticks his tongue out again like he’s asking for a chance to appease his captain. He wraps his hand around Ghost’s neck and pins him back to the wall so he can’t wriggle away again, holds him firm, and he feels Ghost’s breath and pulse in his throat as he keeps his mouth open, saliva and blood pooling invitingly on his tongue. Soap slides his cockhead into it, down to the back on Ghost’s tongue, and his lieutenant gags and then settles.
“If ye bite my dick, I’ll choke you unconscious,” Soap says, after a second, because Ghost’s canines are poised and maybe he’s a little scarred, knowing Ghost’s on a biting kick.
“Promise?” Ghost asks, tongue so heavy with Soap’s cock it comes out garbled, and Soap only knows what he said because of course that’s what he fuckin’ said.
“Won’t be fun,” Soap says. He brackets Ghost’s throat tighter to the wall and slides further in, pushing past the taut muscle, riding up against the rough texture of his hard palette, rutting there. “I’ll finish myself off and leave ye here to think about what you’ve done.”
This time, Ghost can’t talk back, but he lets his teeth graze Soap’s cock as he bullies his way to the root. Soap squeezes his hold around his neck in response, just a little, to let him know he wasn’t kidding.
Though, he was. About the leaving him here part, at least. Maybe not the choking to unconscious thing. Might be the only way to shut him up for good.
Once Ghost’s sufficiently relaxed his jaw and face, folded his lips over his teeth, become a nice slick hole for Soap to fuck, Soap rewards him by letting his neck go and giving him some autonomy. Ghost’s quick to take it and stabilizes himself with gloved hands on Soap’s thighs to suck him off proper.
He bleeds on Soap’s dick a bit, streaking it with red-tinged saliva from his ripped mouth each time he slides down on it, draws back. And as much as Soap likes the look of that, he can tell Ghost likes it more. His pupils blow behind his mask at the tangible proof of his brutalization at the hands of his captain, and for a second he glances up at Soap as if to check if this is okay. If he’s allowed to like it this much.
Ghost’s only younger by the better part of a decade, but he’s eager in a way that Soap can no longer relate to. Despite the skull balaclava and the trademark scowl whenever things go even slightly not his way…he’s cute.
So Soap gives him a reassuring nod and fists Ghost’s hair through the mask to pull him back down on his cock. He pulls him until there’s resistance from his neck muscles, pulls him more until that resistance snaps readily and Ghost takes him all the way, eyes falling half-lidded and nose burying into Soap’s thick pubic hair at the base of his dick.
He holds Simon there for a second. Watches him breathe through his nose and hold tighter to Soap’s thighs when the breathing gets scarce. Then he pulls him off, Ghost huffs a breath, and Soap lets him get to work. He’s his subordinate, after all.
Ghost keeps bleeding on his cock while he blows him, just pink-tinged spit, nothing alarming, the friction of having his mouth fucked keeping the wound from closing up. Soap grunts and braces an arm on the wall, dick twitching in Ghost’s mouth at the thought of making his injury worse with his cock. And the thought of Ghost loving every second, eager to open and re-open and exacerbate his wounds for his captain. He’s probably drooling in his boxers about it, soaked ‘em through to those slaggy fuckin’ leggings. Pussy all fat and creamy with arousal, cock swollen and red and pressing hard against the fabric.
…Fuck, Soap wants to eat him out. Jesus H fucking Christ.
Can’t yet, though. He’s not done teaching his lieutenant a lesson about who he answers to. About who his autonomy and his body and his anger belong to.
“That’s enough, Simon,” he says, extricating him from his dick, reveling in the wounded little noise he makes over being denied. Ghost’s kneeled on the floor, lips parted and messy with blood and spit and pre-cum, eyes a bit glazed from throating Soap’s dick, and Soap wonders if there’s any lesson left to teach, actually. If he’s already calmed him down. Maybe he’s getting good at this.
Either way, Ghost’s too short for wall sex, and only rarely flexible enough to make up for it, so Soap sits on the floor with him and maneuvers his lieutenant into his lap. He tugs at the waist of Ghost’s leggings and Ghost shifts and wiggles and swears until they’re just off his arse, leaving his pussy free but his thighs and legs still encased, wrapped around Soap, useless.
All their gear’s still on aside from that, in fact. Good protocol, really. Could probably get jumped with his cock in Ghost’s cunt and they’d still make it out alive.
Soap cups his palms around Ghost’s hips and rocks up a bit, searching, trying to get the angle right to sink into him.
“Hold it,” Ghost says, layering his hands over Soap’s, taking control from his captain. “Let me just—" He shifts, and the head of Soap’s cock nestles in the soft warmth of his cunt. He feels slick enough to plunge all the way inside, but Ghost takes it slow, lowering his hips, only admitting him inch by inch.
Soap would chalk it up to him being a bloody tease per the usual, but he knows it’s a little more earnest than that.
No, the thing is: Ghost’s tight. All the time, every time they fuck, as if Soap can’t possibly fuck him long enough or deep enough to make a difference. He used to think it a challenge, but he’s convinced by now there’s no real way to break in his pussy. And Ghost’s gotten drunk enough around him once or twice to explain the biology or whatever behind it, why his pussy is as good as it is, but Soap’s mostly just pleased now to watch him wince and huff every time he takes him, like every time is the first time.
It gives a man a bit of an ego, is what he’s saying.
Today, though, Soap’s still trying to teach Ghost something. And he doesn’t really think sitting back while he takes Soap’s dick at his own pace serves the lesson.
“Come on, love,” Soap says, and clamps his hands down firmer on Ghost’s hips. “All the way.”
Before Ghost can protest, Soap pulls him down onto his cock. All at once, splits open the resistant muscles of his tight cunt until his dick is fully enveloped in that unrelenting heat, until his arse is flush with Soap’s balls, until Ghost is swearing louder at him and twisting in his hold and beating his shoulders with tight fists.
“Bastard,” Ghost says. Spits, really. His cunt flutters around Soap at the base, tighter than he’s ever had it, and Soap’s pretty sure he’s gonna have to make a habit of breaking Ghost in like this if this is how good he feels.
He’s positive Ghost likes it too, despite the fight he’s putting up. His pupils are even darker than they were when he was sucking him off, and his pussy is having no trouble staying wet, suctioning him in.
“Aren’t fooling anyone, Simon.” Soap holds Ghost’s hips down, rocks his own up to fuck into him, and Ghost thrashes a little, trying to dislodge him but only succeeding in getting fucked deeper. “Might as well settle down and enjoy getting put in your place.”
Ghost mumbles something in response, and Soap considers it a win that he can’t parse what he’s saying.
He’s more distracted by Ghost’s actions, anyway. His barely rucked down leggings are preventing access to his little cock, so he tries to shove his hand between his thighs, to rub himself off.
Soap doesn’t even bother to verbally scold him. He’s too easy to control with his cunt full and his limbs twisted around Soap like a fuckin’ contortionist. He just grabs his wrists and forcibly wraps his arms around his neck, squeezes the bones under his skin to prove he means it until Ghost’s voice breaks in surprise.
Really, Soap wants him to cum on his cock. He knows he has before, knows he will if he’s just patient for a bloody second.
Though they haven’t fucked exactly like this before. Ghost curled into his lap, Soap bouncing him on his cock. It’s striking how small his lieutenant is compared to him in this position, and he can’t believe how easy it is to move him, to fuck him, to tame him in his hands.
He’s broken in after a few thrusts, going easier up and down, still clenching around Soap in what feels like involuntary contractions. Ghost tucks his face into Soap’s neck, overwhelmed maybe, and Soap doesn’t stop him. He pets his head through the mask and murmurs something about how good Ghost’s being for him.
Ghost sinks his teeth into Soap’s neck.
“Fuckin’ slag—" Soap grabs Ghost by the scruff and postures him upwards. He doesn’t let go right away, fangs still embedded in Soap’s skin, in the muscle where his neck meets his shoulder, so he tears a bit. Soap grits his teeth and swears and slaps his hand instinctively over his neck. When he checks it, he finds they’ve both made each other bleed today.
And once again, Ghost’s smiling about it. Lips and teeth stained red. Looking like he won something, like he bested his captain.
“I was right,” Ghost says, an echo from earlier. “What’s it gonna take for you to admit that…sir?”
It takes Soap a second to catch on to what he’s even talking about, to be honest. A few seconds. He’s balls deep inside Ghost and Ghost’s face is messy with his blood and Ghost’s still upset that Soap didn’t agree he was right.
“Still on about that?” Soap abandons his bleeding neck to hold Ghost’s hips again, to keep fucking him hard and steady. He refuses to stop using his lieutenant’s tight pussy to get off no matter what Ghost does or says to try to distract him. “Of course you were right.”
“Then why were you such a bleedin’ cunt about it?” Ghost asks. His words are weakened by the way his breath cuts in and out, the way his voice breaks when Soap fucks him particularly deep.
“Doesn’t matter if you’re right,” Soap says. He grabs Ghost’s scruff again to keep his eyes forward, to hold his attention. “If you disrespect me in front of them and I let it slide because you’re right, because you’re you, we fuckin’ jeopardize this. Aye?”
Ghost doesn’t meet his eyes, even held like that. He looks away, like a dog being scolded, and it makes Soap’s cordoned-off heart unhinge in his chest. All his posturing about respect and insubordination and the futility of justice falls away met with Simon, soft and broken, in his arms and sat on his cock.
Soap chews on the inside of his mouth and swears under his breath and calls off the lesson. Ghost wasn’t going to learn bleedin’ shit anyway.
“…And I’d never do anything to jeopardize this. This is what’s important to me, Simon.”
Ghost doesn’t respond again, but he stares at him behind the mask, eyes blinking wide. Soap knows that even though he doesn’t need to teach him anything else, he needs to finish what he’s started.
So he doesn’t linger on his admission. He grabs Ghost by the neck, the slender column of his throat fitting snug against his palm, and he squeezes enough to keep his head upright, enough that Ghost chokes a little on his next groan. He holds him there while he fucks into him, his other hand gripping his hip, feeling up his stomach, feeling himself shifting his lieutenant’s guts around. With each thrust there’s the distinct, cut-off sound of Ghost’s “ah-ah-ah”, as noisy getting fucked stupid as he is in the comms when he should be quiet.
Soap likes it here, though, as much as he secretly likes his bratty little voice in the comms. Likes him loud and the way his throat vibrates against his hand. Likes it when he questions him, when he proves he’s not scared of what’s going on between them. He presses his lips to Ghost’s ear and tells him he’s being good for his captain, he’s taking him well, he could fuck his perfect cunt forever, and Ghost’s voice starts breaking on higher moans.
Then his mouth opens on a sound so high it’s silent, just his body rocking into it, and his cunt tightens around Soap so much Soap almost gets locked in. He stills and squeezes his eyes shut and Soap keeps talking him through it—didn’t even touch your dick, that all it takes, fuckin’ look at you undone on my cock—and he’s pretty sure Ghost goes off twice in succession for how long he squeezes the life out of him.
After, Ghost’s body relaxes, and Soap lets go of his neck, lets him melt into him. He still fucks into him, slower now, reveling in the drag of his cock along the cum-slick walls of his lieutenant’s still impossibly tight pussy. He’s like a satisfied cat now in his arms, nuzzling into Soap’s neck and making those ah-ah-ah sounds, tempered and pleased in the back of his throat.
“That what you needed, aye?” Soap asks, and Ghost makes another sweet sound of affirmation. “That’s my good lad. Fuckin’ Christ, you feel like heaven, Simon. Just take it a little longer for me.”
Soap holds his hips and bounces him on his cock, and he comes to the soft, over-stimulated noises Ghost whimpers into his ear. He grinds up into him, pumping him full. He thinks about making him pull up his leggings without cleaning him up so it’ll drip down his legs and he’ll remember this for the rest of the day. Rest of the mission, if he’s real unlucky and they can’t find a place to change clothes.
But Ghost’s learned his lesson. And Soap’s learned the value of just saying what he fuckin’ means. He’s got Ghost tamed and submissive and momentarily quiet in his arms.
Soap can take what he wants most, now.
“Lay back,” he says, untangling Ghost’s limbs, urging him up off his lap. In one fluid motion, he pushes him onto his back, hooks his leggings-encased legs over his shoulders, and buries his face in his lieutenant’s perfect pussy.
“Fuuuuuuuuck,” Soap says and settles on his stomach, pulling Ghost’s cunt apart with his thumbs. He licks him arse to cock, licks up the taste of Ghost’s slick and his own cum leaking from his gaping slit. Ghost shudders and groans and pushes his pussy harder into his face. Because he knows it belongs to Soap…Soap likes to imagine, at least.
Soap gets his mouth on Ghost’s swollen cock and sucks, curls his tongue around the hard mound until Ghost grabs his mohawk in both hands and tries to pull him off.
“That’s—" Ghost shakes his head and Soap holds him down and doesn’t let up for even a second and Ghost comes, shaking and sobbing for mercy, a third time. His slick floods Soap’s chin, the contractions of his orgasm pushing out Soap’s spend from the tight slit of his cunt. “Fuck, sir.”
Soap isn’t mean after that, since Ghost’s been so good bending to him. He avoids his overstimulated little cock and just licks him till he’s clean and then some, until Ghost’s muscles relax and Soap’s shoulders do, too.
He pulls off him and wipes his face with his forearm, sits up, puts his cock away.
“Better?” Soap asks, an echo from earlier. Ghost huffs a noncommittal sound, sits up and leans forward, and tucks into Soap’s neck again. Soap braces himself on instinct, but Ghost licks at the bite he left instead. It burns pleasantly with saliva and sweat. He holds the back of Ghost’s head and hums a little, tries not to lean on the lullabies his mother used to hum for him because that’s an interesting instinct, if he’s being honest.
Ghost stays there, breathing Soap’s air. The bites on Soap’s lip and thigh sting too, evidence of Ghost’s bad attitude, his willingness to push his captain’s buttons. Soap checks his wristwatch over Ghost’s head and curses under his breath.
“Let me see your face, love,” he says, and Ghost sits up. Maybe Soap didn’t hold back when he hit him as much as he thought, because the evidence blossoms on his cheek, pretty and damning.
“Lucky I wear the mask,” Ghost says, before Soap can diagnose the situation out loud. He pulls it down over his nose and mouth again before Soap can see him grin about it, and then he’s out of Soap’s arms to retrieve his sunglasses across the room before Soap can kiss him again.
They make it to exfil and the bruise says more about Ghost’s insubordination than anything said over comms could. But neither of them is surprised when Ghost stops talking back to his captain.
…On comms, at least.