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Soap is needy for company, any. His brain is whirring too loudly and if he sits still for even another second he’s going to do something he regrets. He’s already cut his Mohawk just a little shorter than usual and if he spends any longer near the scissors he fears he’ll end up with an impromptu buzz cut. His usual choice when it comes to someone to act as a balm to his frayed edges (Ghost, always Ghost) has been holed up in his office for the better part of the day. He settles for the next best thing.
He corners Price and Gaz in the little courtyard they all use to avoid smoking in the common areas, Price already has a thick cloud of hazy smoke settled in a halo around his head. Gaz is visibly wincing as it stings his eyes, still sensitive to the cigar smoke even after so long working with the Captain. Price has a look in his eye like maybe he’s deliberately blowing the smoke in his direction, trying for a reaction that they all know Gaz isn’t going to give him, too well trained and too loyal to get pissy about something so minor.
Soap huffs and punches Gaz in the shoulder lazily in greeting, pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket with his free hand. He taps one out and takes it between his teeth before he feels a large presence loom behind his left shoulder, sees Gaz startle, just a little.
Soap knows who it is without looking, just from the way his entire body settles, like cold water hitting a fresh burn, soothing, overwhelming. He allows himself a couple of seconds to let it wash over him, the buzzing in his brain quieting finally.
“LT, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Soap mumbles around the filter, quirks an eyebrow when Ghost steps properly into view but doesn’t speak right away, pale lashes fluttering behind the mask as his eyes seem to chase the planes of Johnny’s face. His gaze, as always, sits like oil over Soap’s skin, slick and cloying. Impossible to ignore. He looks tired, but he always does after any time at his desk. Soap kind of thinks maybe he needs glasses but there’s no fucking way he’s gonna be the one to suggest it.
“Can I bum a fag?” The question is accompanied by a nod towards the packet still in Soap’s hand. It’s followed by a nonplussed quirk of his eyebrow when Gaz makes a strangled noise and rolls his eyes in Soap’s direction, wincing back half a step. Soap knows he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t rise to it, he can’t help himself though and he feels a leer creep across his face before he’s even really decided to answer.
“Aye sir, but ye’ll have to buy me dinner first.” Gaz groans and covers his eyes, already edging closer in the direction of Price, no doubt to inform him about the impending murder of their demolitions expert. Soap pumps his eyebrows for added effect while simultaneously trying to catalogue the best escape routes from the vicinity.
Ghost though. Ghost stills, blinks once, twice, always so thoughtful and then his eyes sparkle. Steaming Christ, they might even twinkle.
“Just the one dinner, Johnny? Had no idea you were so easy.” It’s wry and there’s a twitch under the thin fabric of the mask that Soap thinks might just be a smirk. Johnny is so stunned that he freezes. They’ve always been friendly, pushed the bounds of insubordination and proper conduct, but they’ve never been overtly, blatantly, flirty. And say what you will about Soap but he damn well knows flirting when he hears it.
Ghost takes the opportunity to snatch a cigarette out of the packet still in Soap’s slightly slack hand and uses his index finger to push his mask up just high enough that it can slot between his lips.
“Going to offer me a light, Sergeant?” Ghost adds after several long seconds of looking at him expectantly, eyes scanning his face, searching for something Johnny has no idea whether he’ll find.
Soap doesn’t know what possesses him, truly has no earthly idea where the boldness emerges from or what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, but instead of lighting Ghost’s cigarette with his old zippo he flicks the flame on to light his own and then leans forward. Slowly enough that he sees Ghost’s eyes widen when he realises what Soap’s doing; he stands just slightly on tiptoes and presses the now red cherry against the unlit tip of Ghost’s. It’s long, agonising seconds that feel like hours before the cigarette is lit and Ghost takes a long inhale, breathing out the smoke through his nose in a way that filters through the bunched fabric and curls and caresses against Soap’s cheeks.
Fuck.
One of the top five most erotic experiences of Johnny’s life and it happened in front of his boss and his best mate, both of whom he could sense staring dumbfounded at him.
The remembrance of Price’s eyes on them is at least enough to immediately wilt the thickening of his cock he’d achieved during his brief moment of insanity. Or at least it does until Ghost fucking whispers “Thank you.” And it comes roaring back with a vengeance bordering on painful.
Ghost slips back into the shadows with a nod in Price’s direction, the glowing tip of his cigarette glinting off the warm brown of his eyes until the dark eats away at that too. Soap’s own cigarette is forgotten between his fingers as he stares into the spot Ghost just was.
“Close your mouth son.” Price chuckles with a firm slap to his shoulder “You’ll catch flies.” This is apparently enough to push Gaz over the edge and he collapses into howls of laughter, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.
“What the fuck was that about, mate?” He manages to stutter out between giggles.
The hideous truth of the situation washes over him then all at once, and he buries his face in his hands with a pained groan.
“What the fuck was tha?” He repeats back to Gaz “Literally what in the flamin’ god-fearin’ fuck was ah thinkin?”
“It could have been worse.” Price offers kindly, although he’s clearly a fucking liar.
“Yeah” Gaz grins “Could’ve missed the fag and set the mask on fire.” And he immediately collapses back into fits of laughter. Price audibly smothers his own laugh with a sigh and drags Gaz towards the door before he can rub it in any further.
“Fuck off.” Soap spits, though it’s less venomous than he’d hoped because he’s also grappling with that particular mental image.
“Sergeant?” Price says from the doorway he’s just shoved Gaz through.
“Captain?”
“Ghost never goes anywhere without a lighter on him.” He nods once and closes the door behind him, leaving Soap with only the half light spilling through the windows.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
—
Ghost can’t stop thinking about it. He knew bloody well that he’d been toying with the edges of the tentative boundary between them. He’d pushed and he knew it, getting up in Soap’s space like that. Asking for a light, like a teenage girl trying to get her crush to notice her. Pathetic.
But. But there had been something different. Something in the way Soap had looked at him. Something in the way he’d looked, with his ridiculous Mohawk shorter than usual, less to grab but somehow still so, so appealing.
And there was the other thing. The thing where Soap had implied that he was not as straight as Ghost had been convincing himself all this time. Soap’s heterosexuality had been the tether holding Ghost’s feelings back, he hasn’t felt this way about pretty much anyone in his life, certainly not since.
Well. Since he became The Ghost.
The yearning in his chest is like a lead weight behind his sternum, aches as much as any of his scars. Now though Soap has opened those floodgates with a stupid joke, of all things, and Simon feels raw and exposed at the idea that maybe he could have this one day.
He honestly hasn’t decided what he’s going to do about any of it. On a good day he thinks maybe sometimes when he finds himself watching Soap, he catches Soap watching him right back. He just wishes he knew for sure what that means.
There is also the matter of Soap’s little move with the cigarette the other night. There is no reason for him to have done that, surely? No mistaking the way Soap had looked at him, like he was something worth looking at. After almost a decade as the Ghost it’s a little unnerving to have someone so intent on seeing him so utterly.
He decides to do nothing, and let Soap come to him. It’s the right thing to do, considering their difference in rank. He ignores the voice in the back of his head whispering that he is simply taking the cowards way out.
The best laid plans, however, do often go awry and in his line of work ‘awry’ usually means ‘totally fubar’.
The hit to Johnny’s bad knee is only harder than the blow to his head due to the way his knee buckling has his head jerking down quickly. The butt of the rifle glances much higher on his skull and a force that would have been incapacitating, if not lethal, is reduced to just extremely fucking painful. Ghost is thrusting a knife into the neck of the man that did it before he’s even stopped swinging.
“Fuck, Johnny, you okay?” There’s a grunt and a whine that’s not remotely reassuring. “Soap, Sergeant, how copy?”
“Ah’m fine, LT.” He sounds anything but fine, the response is gritted out between clenched teeth and when Ghost finally stops scanning the surrounding area for any further hostiles he sees Soap try to stand, also sees it when he collapses back down like a sack of potatoes.
Ghost drops to his side as though his own strings are cut and he’s running gloved fingers over Soap’s scalp before he even knows he’s doing it.
“Said ‘m fine.” Soap repeats but Ghost carries on with his examination as if he didn’t hear, fingers tenderly tracing the edges of the sluggishly bleeding cut above Soap’s right ear. He stops only when gentle fingers enclose his and ease them away, lowering them to rest bunched together between their legs.
“You fell. Could be more than a superficial cut Johnny, could be a concussion, or worse.” He risks a glance up at Soap’s eyes and the look in them is a terrible combination of soft and pained. He looks away again.
“I fell because that cunt used an M-16 as a bat and clubbed my knee in.”
Simon immediately untangles their hands and moves his grasp to Soap’s leg, feels gently around the area until he can feel the start of the swelling. It’s not broken, and he tells Johnny as much, but it’s not exactly in good shape either.
Exfil had been planned for a field about half a mile out, the rendezvous time inching closer.
He finally lifts his gaze to meet Johnny’s again, offers him a smirk he hopes he can make out under the mask. “Why do one legged people love beer so much?”
It earns him a quirk of Soap’s mouth and a slightly raised eyebrow, “I don’t know, Ghost, why do they love beer?”
“Because it’s made with hops.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Ghost that was shite, yer fuckin aff yer heid, fuckin ceritf-” Whatever charming commentary had been going to follow, Ghost decides to cut it off by throwing Soap over his shoulder, ignoring the stream of outraged profanity that followed.
They’d packed light for the mission, thankfully, and while Soap is heavy he hasn’t got the added weight of his usual number of weapons. The fireman’s carry he has him in also has the benefit of Soap’s ranting being directed pretty squarely at his arse. He fully tunes out of Soap’s furious tirade around the time he hears ‘have you court-martialled’ and just focuses on plodding onwards on his quest for the exfil sight.
He notes to himself, just a little smugly, that while he’s bitching and moaning up a storm, Soap hasn’t actually tried to physically remove himself from Ghost’s hold. He tighten’s his grip on Soap’s thigh just a little, absolutely does not think about all that warm, solid muscle under his palm.
Soap shuts up a little earlier into the journey than Ghost had anticipated, he’s briefly scared that perhaps he’d missed something and it had been a concussion after all, that’s put to rest when he pinches the meat of Soap’s thigh and immediately sparks a new tirade including a surprisingly vivid description of just how Soap will kill him in his sleep.
Ghost misses most of it because pinching Soap, while effective, had the added interesting affect of causing Soap to slap whatever was nearest him. In his current position ‘whatever’ had meant Ghost’s arse, which is still smarting a little from the force of it.
Ghost is sweating profusely by the time they get to exfil, his mask damn near water boarding him even through the thin fabric, the cool wind whipped up by the rotors of the helicopter is more than welcome.
Price hops down to help him and shoots a worried look at Soap. “He okay?”
Soap barks out “I’m fucking fine, Captain.” At the same time Ghost says a firm “No.”
Price rolls his eyes even as he waves back to the medic waiting in the chopper to move forward.
“Any chance you can get ‘im to put me down, Captain? Spooky bastard carried me the whole way here even though he’s got a nasty cut to the back of his thigh.”
“Do not.” Ghost says, though now that Soap mentions it, his thigh is smarting.
“Do to.” And Ghost knows without looking at him that Soap is sticking his tongue out at him. Childish.
“Ghost!” Price snaps “Drop him.” Ghost drops him, though he’s careful to ensure that he lands on his good leg and his head doesn’t come close to the ground.
“Good dog.” Soap snaps, smugly, and Ghost is so, so tempted to kick him. He flips them both off instead and stalks into the helicopter, leaving Soap on the ground.
The medic takes their time checking Soap over, making sure that neither of his injuries is any worse than Ghost had expected. Ghost positions himself so that he can hear them all, but tries to look nonchalant at the same time. The verdict is that Ghost had been right and Soap will need to report to medical once they get back to base.
Price and the medic, Jones, Ghost thinks, definitely something Welsh, support one of Johnny’s arms each and help into the helo. He tries his best to look uninterested, truly, but when they plonk Soap into the seat next to him he can’t quite stop himself from pulling up their packs and positioning them to act as a makeshift leg rest to keep Soap’s knee straight and elevated.
Soap watches him with big eyes as he arranges the packs and secures them with spare straps. He continues to watch as Ghost takes his seat back and he knows Price’s eyes are on him too.
“Aw, LT, ye do care.” Soap says, fond, too fond.
“Shut up.” It’s the best he can do right now, with the eyes of their captain on them and his skin feeling two sizes too small. Johnny seems to know anyway, and as Ghost settles further into his seat, accidentally-on-purpose bumping their shoulders and leaving them pressed together he sees a small smile creep onto his face.
He has to pull his eyes away, but this means he sees the intense look Price is levelling at him, and he looks away again, watches the grim landscape pass beneath them as the bird pulls into the air. He doesn’t look back for the rest of the flight.
-
Soap can’t sleep on the helicopter. The whir of the blades usually soothes him until he’s out in minutes but the hot press of his shoulder against Ghost’s is all he can think about. If he sleeps he might miss out on precious minutes of awareness of his body pressed to Ghost’s, warm, alive.
This thing, the dance they’ve been doing for the last few weeks. For the whole time they’ve known each other really, it can’t go on. Not like this. Soap can’t think about anything else, he has to know, has to, whether Ghost’s feelings are anything like his. Is this just physical for him? Would it jsut be two soldiers passing time?
Johnny can do that, he thinks, he can push his feelings down and take whatever Ghost will give him.
It’s more though, for him. God, it’s so much more.
He feels daring, with the contact between them, allows himself to relax as if he’s sleeping, rolls his head to the side until it rests against Ghost’s shoulder. He expects to be shrugged off, even if gently.
Ghost just sits there, goes sniper-still, until Soap feels like maybe the helicopter could fall out the sky and Ghost would just stay there, solid and sure and immovable.
Ghost is still looking out the window to the other side so Soap chances cracking an eye, immediately doesn’t like the knowing look Price shoots him from his perch opposite, closes it again just a little too late to see the smirk hiding behind his beard.
He finally dozes off just a few hours from home.
When he wakes it’s to Price barking orders as he opens the doors.
“Ghost, get him to medical, yeah? Take yourself while you’re at it, you’re bleeding on my equipment.” Soap shifts enough to see that a small trickle of blood has run from the edge of Ghost’s seat onto the floor. Not enough for concern, but certainly enough he should get it looked at, even if the blood is hours old and the thigh wound has clearly stopped bleeding already.
Price nods at him and then heads out the doors and paces off across the tarmac.
“Back with us, Sergeant?” Ghost says, and shifts a little until Soap is forced to finally pick up his head, with a wince.
“Aye, LT, I’m with ye.”
“Good.” Ghost offers, and stands. He eases Soap’s arm over his shoulder taking most of his weight and they make their way to medical together. Ghost stands over him the whole time the doctors fuss. Only one of them dares shoot Soap a look that says ‘do you even want him here’ and they both bristle enough that she backs down and moves off to run whatever test she’d been collecting blood for.
The consensus is that his head is fine, just a flesh wound, and the headache will go away in a few hours. His knee is in trouble, though they all agree that it’s nothing a nice long rest period (at least a week of desk duty) and some physio won’t fix. They set him up with a brace and tell him he’s welcome to go before they all depart and leave him alone with Ghost.
Ghost, who ceases his looming to nod at him and turns to leave.
“Wait.” Soap grips the leg of Ghost’s trousers tightly, though he honestly has no idea what he’s planning on saying. He just knows, somehow, that if he let’s Ghost step out of this room right now then they’ll go straight back to whatever ridiculous dance they’ve been doing and nothing will change.
All of a sudden that seems unbearable.
“This thing we have going on.” He starts, hesitantly.
“This ‘thing’?” Soap can hear the raised eyebrow, and Ghost seems genuinely confused, which for some reason spurs Soap on even more.
“Aye, Ghost, the ‘thing’ we do where we flirt and dance around eachother and never do anything about it?” Ghost’s eyes are huge and his chest is heaving, he looks panicked in a way Soap hasn’t seen him look before, even in active combat situations. Soap ploughs on, “I’d like to. Do something about it. I like ye, and I would like to do more than just flirt with you. Please.”
Ghost stares at him. Blinks.
Stares some more.
Then he lunges.
-
“Fuck off, Simon, why the actual fuck would you headbutt me for?” Soap gropes at the bridge of his nose, presumably feeling for the source of the sting that must be blooming across its bridge. Ghost winces.
“I wasn’t-”
“I think your mask fucken bit me, ya brute, Christ do ye sharpen its teeth or something.”
“I didn’t headbutt you.”
“Ye fucken did, Sir, ah was there.”
“Forgot I was wearing the hardshell.” Simon offers, a little abashed.
“Forgot? Aye so ye wanted it to be a slightly less toothy headbutt, aren’t I lucky.” Ghost lets out a very, very long breath through his nose and reaches up to adjust the mask selfconsciously.
“Wasn’t trying to headbutt you at all.”
“Tha’s a shame then sir, because it was an excellent headbutt, but a shite whatever the hell you were going for.”
“Was going for a kiss.” Ghost mutters, and cringes a little when he hears how petulant he sounds.
“You wha’?”
“A kiss, MacTavish, was trying to” he makes a vague gesture with his hands that he hopes maybe conveys ‘I was attempting to kiss you because you made it clear that maybe that would be welcome but seem to have forgotten that in the face of me very definitely headbutting you in the face’.
He’s not sure it succeeds.
“Do it again then.”
“Bit scared to now, to be honest, you were so dramatic about it last time.”
“Well I’d do it but I don’t exactly know where your mouth is, now do I?”
Ghost looks heavenward in the universal expression for ‘Lord give me strength’ and counts to three.
“If I were to take my mask off would you perhaps entertain the idea of kissing me, Johnny, or would you prefer I go and lick my wounds in private?”
“Nae.” There’s a smirk nestled in the corner of Soap’s mouth that Ghost kind of loves but definitely wants to wipe off “If there’s any licking to be done about your person, sir, I’m more than happy to oblige.”
Ghost makes an exasperated noise but slides the hood off at the same time, scrubbing a hand through his hair in a half hearted effort to stop it looking quite so flat. “So will y-”
He doesn’t finish because Johnny’s hands are cupping his neck and yanking his head down and there is a pair of soft lips pressing insistently against his.
It’s kind of clumsy, realistically, the angle is bad. Soap is still sitting on the hospital bed, hands clutching the back of Ghost’s neck as he stoops awkwardly. It’s still pretty much the best kiss of his entire life though and it only improves when Soap lets out a little whine and shifts the angle, tongue slipping out to trace Ghost’s bottom lip.
Simon brings his hands up to cup Johnny’s jaw, opens his mouth to finally get a taste.
Soap flinches and hisses and Simon jolts away like he’s been burned, realises his finger had brushed against the cut on Soap’s temple. Soap, however, doesn’t seem that upset about it, he’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat, all teeth and sharp edges. Simon lets his hand drift around to run his thumb along Johnny’s bottom lip, follows it with a soft, apologetic kiss.
“Can’t seem to stop hurting you, can I?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Si, I can’t feel a thing.” Soap is still smiling and it lights up a pathetic, giddy part of Simon’s brain. Soap leans in again and kisses at the scar tugging up the corner of Ghost’s mouth, follows it up to press a kiss as it skirts his cheekbone, another to the one that cuts through his eyebrow.
“I’d almost forgotten how pretty you are.” Soap mumbles against his temple, dropping his head to thunk against Simon’s shoulder, buries his face into his neck.
“Shut up.” He says it with bite, but he’s pretty sure Soap can feel his smile even as he hides it against Soap’s shoulder.
He pulls back reluctantly, helps Soap stand with gentle hands on his ribs, let’s them linger to feel the rise and fall of Soap’s lungs.
“We’d best go to debrief.” Soap nods and watches a little warily as Simon drags the mask back on. He lets their eyes catch as he tugs the neck back into place and tries to think of how to say that he doesn’t want that to be it, that he does want this. Soap’s hands come up to cover his and finish tucking the hem of the hood into position, and then he leans up to very gently press a kiss to Ghost’s mouth through the thin fabric.
“Later?” Soap asks.
“Later.” Ghost agrees, letting his smile reach his eyes.
-
‘Later’ had ended up being that evening, the two of them making out like teenagers in Soap’s quarters, hands straying and groping over clothes, but that’s as far as they’d gone. They’d parted with a last lazy kiss when the exhaustion from the mission had finally hit them both at once. That had been a week ago and they’d been busy enough that they’d not had an opportunity for anything more since then, not until Ghost had finally snapped and cornered Johnny in the locker room, telling him to be at his room by seven or else.
Simon sits.
Then stands.
Then sits again, but with his legs crossed.
This was such a stupid fucking idea. He’s nervous, pathetically so when he already knows how much Johnny wants him, but its safe to say it has been…a while.
Years.
Why he ever thought that throwing a schedule into the mix so that he’d have a countdown hanging over his head was a good idea he’d never know. Time was moving weirdly, too fast and slow as molasses, making the ticking of the clock above his desk unbearable.
He’d opted for comfortable (easy to remove) clothes after his shower and he brushed his fingers down his black Henley, grey trackies. Shit maybe this was too presumptive, maybe he should’ve picked a shirt, something dressier so he looked like he’d put in an effort. Soap deserved that much even if Simon was actually strongly of the opinion that Soap’d be happiest if he answered the door stark bollock naked.
He stands up, ready to rummage through the wardrobe all over again but the clock hits 1900 and Soap is a military man through and through, punctuality drilled into his bones his whole career. The raps on the door are loud, thunderously so.
Ghost expects a shot of adrenaline, a jolt of something at least, but he feels a wave of calm wash over him as he opens the door. This is Johnny, his Johnny, and he knows him, better than he’s ever known anyone maybe, he has nothing to fear from him. Soap may be holding his bruised, crumpled heart in his hands like a baby bird, but he’ll care for it just as delicately too.
“So fucken bonnie, Si.” Is the first thing Soap says when Simon opens the door, and he feels the bloom of pink settle across his cheekbones, the tops of his ears.
Maskless was the right choice then, if the way Soap is gazing at him with pure adoration is anything to go by.
“Get in here, Sergeant.” Ghost slides ungloved fingers into the back of the Mohawk and uses it to drag Soap into his room, pressing him up against the door the second it’s closed.
Soap is wearing a green t shirt that is very obviously a size too small, sleeves straining around his biceps, broad chest framed beautifully by the soft stretch of the cotton. He’s also wearing gym shorts, slutty ones, in Ghost’s opinion, ones that he has spent far longer fantasising about than he cares to think about.
“I’m going to burn those fucking shorts, Johnny.” It leaves Simon’s throat as a growl and he basks in the way Soap’s pupils expand and there’s the click of his throat as he swallows.
“What, these old things? Dae know what ye think they’ve ever done to you.” Soap starts a little breathy but his mouth twists up at the corner as he adds “I think they make my arse look pretty good.”
Simon rumbles again, reaches behind Soap to grab a handful of said arse, uses it to reel him in so their bodies are flush together, thighs slotted between each other. He rakes his teeth up Soap’s neck, rests his lips against his ear.
“That’s exactly the fucking problem, Johnny, you’re mine now, don’t want anyone else looking at you, or this.” He adds with a hard squeeze of Soap’s arse and a slow grind of his thigh against the growing erection hidden in the fabric of those hideous, wonderful shorts.
“Possessive bastard.” Soap says but he sounds anything but sorry about it, he’s panting just a little as Simon pulls him in for another slow thrust down onto his thigh, “How about instead, I get to keep these shorts but you get to fight anyone who dares look at me in them. My own personal guard dog.” Simon can live with that, he supposes, rewards Soap by shoving his thigh further between his legs, applying constant pressure.
“So hard for me already, Johnny.” It’s panted out just before he finally leans in to take Soap’s mouth in a bruising kiss, hot and wet and so fucking good. Johnny is letting out these perfect little moans and he swallows them all, licks them out of his mouth.
“Should see yerself,” Soap grinds out “answering the door like that, dressed so slutty for me, look like a fucking wet dream.”
“Soap, fuck.” Simon whines, leaning down to bite his way along the strong line of his jaw, stubble scraping at his lips, he finds a good spot under the bolt of his jaw, too high to be hidden by gear or equipment, and gets to work sucking a mark.
Soap’s hands have slid down, skimming along the waistband of the tracksuit bottoms, playing idly with the drawstring, slinking back up and under his shirt. They follow the lines of his body, light fat covering his abs, hands sliding off course to follow the divots and peaks of scar tissue, pressing in on some just to hear the way it makes Simon hiss.
It takes a minute for him to realise Soap is pausing only on the ones he knows the stories for, a knife slice to his waist, a bullet graze on his ribs, shrapnel scatters across his stomach. It almost chokes him, the thoughtfulness of it, avoiding the ones he doesn’t know, where the weight of their stories might be too much of a presence in the room.
“I’ll tell you about them one day.” He whispers into Soap’s mouth, he doesn’t know if it’s actually true, has never tried and doesn’t know if he even could, but if there’s anyone in the world he could share them with it’s this man in his arms.
Soap ignores him, or maybe he has no idea what Simon is talking about, he might not even be doing this consciously, which is like a second punch to the gut all by itself.
The hands continue their exploration, fingers pressing firmly, covetously, into flesh, nails scraping lightly.
“What the fuck.” Soap wrenched his mouth away from Simon’s and starts shoving his shirt up to bunch beneath his arms. “Ghost, tell me you don’t have your nipples pierced.”
“I don’t have my nipples pierced.” Simon says to Johnny, who is currently staring at the two gold barbells clearly pierced through his nipples. Soap looks like he might be going to pass out which is pretty gratifying, Simon uses the pause to pull his shirt off the rest of the way and definitely does not flex a little showily as he does.
“How the fuck have I never noticed these through yer clothes?”
“Clearly haven’t spent enough time staring at my tits.” Simon offers and Soap sends him a withering look, or as withering as anyone can look when they’re also literally drooling.
“Trust me, Si, that is not the problem.” Ghost snorts.
“Usually have flatter silicone ones in.” He admits, and flushes when he sees that Soap immediately catches what this means.
“Oh sweetheart,” Soap groans, bringing his hands up to brush both thumbs firmly across the piercings, Simon’s hips jerk forward sharply and it draws a low chuckle from Soap’s throat “Did you put these in for me? Wanted to make yourself all pretty for me?” Simon refuses to answer but he knows the red flush across his skin gives him away anyway.
At Ghost’s silence Soap ducks his head and latches his mouth onto his right nipple, worrying the jewellery with his tongue, tugging lightly with his teeth.
“Ah, fuck, Johnny.” Ghost whines, hand cupping the back of Soap’s head, fingers winding in to pull his hair even as he pushes his head closer. He gives a keen as Soap adds a particularly hard suck and licks a trail across to give the other nipple the same treatment. Simon is painfully hard and there’s a growing wet spot on the front of his trousers where he’s leaking into them. “Bed?”
It’s phrased as a question but he’s already using his bulk to shift them both away from the door and fall back onto the hard mattress, he spins them so that he takes the weight of Johnny hitting the too-firm bed. He rolls them again almost immediately so that he has Soap under him, spread out and panting, chest heaving in a way that shows off just how fucking broad he is.
“Strip.” He orders and Soap’s eyes get even darker as he rushes to obey, peeling off his shirt as Simon takes charge of stripping away the shorts. He might keep them, frame them in a glass case to be used for emergencies. Emergencies relating to him needing to be able to see Soap’s thighs.
He sucks in sharply through his nose as he rips the shorts down to slide off Soap’s ankles. “No pants? Slag.” He says it fondly and it earns him the grin he’d imagined it would.
“Rich coming from you.” Soap punctuates it with a firm flick to one of his nipples, punching another involuntary groan from him.
“Christ, Johnny, you have any idea what you look like? All spread out for me, looking like everything I’ve ever wanted? Look like a fucking meal.” And he ducks down to start his own exploration.
Miles of skin available to him he takes his time, using lips and tongue, teeth and hands until he has Soap begging incoherently. He works his way down, shoulders first where he leaves bruises and a firm bite into the meat of it, presses a gentle kiss to the bullet scar from Las Almas. Slides his mouth down to focus on Soap’s chest and indulges himself by playing, alternating between sharp nips, soft sucks, gentle licks, until Soap is squirming against him, his cock leaving a wet trail where it rubs ineffectually against Ghost’s belly.
“Please, Simon, more.” He sounds desperate, a little pathetic and it does something to the dark, possessive part of Simon’s brain. He darts back up to kiss Soap, more tender than they have been so far, soothing and gentling him, kisses turning languid and lazy before he slides back off to continue his exploration.
“Going to learn your whole body.” He mutters into the soft dark hair of Soap’s chest, revelling in the way Soap’s hands have tangled in his curls, “Learn how to take you apart, just so I can put you back together again.” He adds as he slides down to press kisses into the trail of hair just beneath his navel.
“Fucken hell, Si, anything you want, anything, it’s yers.” He’s slurring just a little and his words are so exactly what Simon want to hear that he decides he probably owes him a reward.
He draws back a moment to properly enjoy the image spread out before him. Soap is flushed and there’s a sheen of sweat glistening across his torso. He’s leaking too, a puddle of precome pooling on his stomach, hard cock curved up and flushed red, so perfect.
Simon leans in, laps at the precome, shoots Johnny a grin where he’s watching him from the pillows and dips his head to lick a long stripe up his cock from base to tip, smearing a cocktail of precome and spit as he goes. There’s a hard thunk as Soap’s head drops back and hits the headboard, his hands tighten their grip in Simon’s hair though, gently guiding him to swallow down the head of his cock.
Simon can’t help a moan, at finally having this, finally tasting him, the perfect weight of Johnny filling his mouth. The vibrations travel down Soap’s cock earning him a sharp thrust and a tug on his hair.
“Bleedin Christ, Simon, I think yer gonna kill me.” Simon laughs a little at that, around the cock in his mouth, and it earns him another emphatic groan. He bobs his head a few more times, hand wrapped around Johnny’s base, keeping time with slow strokes. He relaxes his throat a little, aware that it’s been a while since he’s done this, and lowers himself as far as he can, is extremely smug to find that the answer is pretty damn far.
He pulls back just enough to slide off the tip of Soap’s cock with a wet pop “Don’t hold back on me now darling, take what you need.”
“If ye had any fucken idea.” Soap pants “How hard I am trying not to come right now ye’d not be saying shit like tha.” He does give a couple of experimental thrusts though, Simon hums in acknowledgment and earns himself an entire slew of profanities in response.
Soap seems to realise just what Simon wants and picks up the pace of his thrusts, allowing himself to slide deeper into Simon’s throat, he’s babbling now, liturgies about how good and perfect Simon is which have him grinding his still clothed erection into the bed for relief. He chokes a couple of times as Johnny’s thrusts get more erratic but he won’t let himself be pulled off as Soap’s grip on his hair tries to do and just breathes harshly through his nose as he redoubles his efforts.
“Si, love, please I’m close, ah’m-” Simon pulls back just enough to offer hoarse encouragement.
“Go on Johnny, come for me, let me have it.” But Soap tightens his grip on Ghost’s hair when he goes to lower his head back down, holds him just above his dick and uses his other hand to lift Simon’s chin and look him in the eye.
“Not yet, Si, not yet. Don’t want tae come until I have you inside of me.” Simon feels his jaw drop, still slick with spit, lets himself be pulled up the length of Johnny’s body into a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. “Fuck me? Please?”
Simon pulls back just in time to see Soap literally bat his eyelashes and it surprises a bark of laughter out of him, the toothy smile Soap gives him is enough to tell him that had been the desired response.
“You sure?” He asks anyway.
“Never been so desperate for anything in ma life, love.” Simon swears every time he hears that pet name his heart does a little backflip in his chest, “Unless ye’d rather not?”
“Johnny, I quite literally have spent entire weeks thinking about nothing else.” He punctuates it with a kiss and a filthy grind of his hips into Soap’s, the wet fabric at the front of his sweats causing a slow drag of the material along both their cocks. “Might take a while though.” He adds a little hesitantly, and when Soap raises an eyebrow he continues “To prep you, I’m, uh, quite big.”
“Quite big?” Soap repeats, and then Simon is being flipped onto his back and his trousers are being unceremoniously pulled down to his ankles by 5’11” of enthusiastic Scotsman.
“Wow. You really don’t ever go into a fight unarmed, do ye?” There’s a very broad grin growing across Johnny’s face.
“Soap.”
“Nah Sir, I’m just saying I had no idea ye were always carrying a WMD with ye in the field.”
“Johnny-”
“Sorry, just momentarily distracted by your Weirdly Massive Dick.”
“It’s not ‘Weirdly Massive’ it’s slightly above average.” Ghost resents that there’s a bit of a pout in his voice.
“Whopping Monster Dong.” Simon rolls from under Soap and stands.
“If you don’t want it Johnny I’m happy to take it elsewhere.”
“No!” Soap’s hand shoots out and takes a firm grip around the base of his erection, preventing him moving unless he’s keen to be extremely uncomfortable “I didn’t mean it, I want you to stay, you’re perfect just the way you are.”
“You’re talking to my cock aren’t you.”
“Your Wonderful Masculine Dangle, aye.”
“This is by far the least sexy foreplay of my life.”
“You love it.” Soap winks up at him as he takes a step forward, putting his cock appealingly close to Soap’s face. The visual would take a weaker man to his knees, honestly.
“Fuckin’ don’t know what it says about me that that’s true.” Johnny’s grin goes achingly fond.
“Besides,” Soap’s tone is conversational, but his eyes are steely “if you did take it ‘elsewhere’ as you put it, I’d have to kill them. You’re mine now, just as much as I’m yours.” Simon knows Soap feels the way his cock twitches in his grip.
“Yours.” He agrees and is rewarded with long, slow strokes along his length.
“Mine.” Soap says again, eyes gazing up at Simon’s face, even as he leans in to suckle at the head of his cock.
“Ah, fuck, Johnny.”
Simon can’t take his eyes off him, the way his eyelids flutter closed, like this is as good for him as it is for Simon. His cheeks are hollowing every time he draws back and he keeps making these punched out breathy sounds.
“Johnny if you want me to fuck you, you’re gonna need to stop mate.” He gets a sharp smack to the hip for that and opens his mouth in mild offence as Johnny unceremoniously draws off.
“Don’t fucking call me ‘mate’ while I’m blowing ye, dickhead.”
Simon laughs at the outrage painted on Johnny’s face, pushes him back to flop onto the bed, scooches him up to the pillows.
“What would you rather I call you?” He says, apologetically, straddling Soap’s lap and pressing a kiss to his pouting mouth. “Sweetheart?” He kisses his cheek, “Darling?” His nose, “Love?” His lips again, and because he can see Soap’s defences starting to crack, he throws in a slow grind of his hips for good measure.
“Yer lucky ah’m so forgiving,” There’s absolutely no bite to the words, and Simon kisses the smile that’s crept onto his face “get the lube.”
Simon has been a soldier since he was a teenager and he’s well into his 30s by now, in all that time he’s not convinced he’s ever been so eager to follow an order as he is right this second. He flushes just a little as he hands the bottle back to Soap and sees him register that it’s only half full, which is patently ridiculous considering he is a grown man who is about to use the lube for its intended purpose as it is.
“Simon, how badly do ah want to see what else is in that drawer?” He rolls his eyes.
“Based on the feral fucking look in your eye I’d say quite badly.”
“You think about me when you fuck yourself, Si?” Simon might have blushed further if Soap didn’t look utterly stunned, apparently it had never occurred to him that Simon might want to try things the other way round.
“Obviously.” Simon barks, and then he reaches down to pour a little lube onto his fingers and give some firm strokes to Soap’s cock, “Wanna know something else? It’s not as big as you, the dildo, doesn’t fill me up nearly as well as you will.”
“Fuck, I’m gonna throw it away.” Soap’s hips buck helplessly into Simon’s hand but his tone still manages to be vicious. “From now on if you wanna ride a cock it’s gonna be mine or nothing.”
Simon feels a shiver run down his spine, the heat of Soap’s possession sparking an echo of it in his own blood, “Next time.” He offers, shifting down the bed and tugging Soap’s thighs to drag him prone, bullying his way between Soap’s legs until he’s spread open for him “Right now I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk, until the only name you know is mine.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” Soap throws back at him, veering quickly into a drawn out moan as Simon’s fingers trace circles over his hole. Simon takes his time, applying pressure and drawing back, light teasing over the rim, until the muscle is soft and pliant enough that sliding the first finger in earns almost no resistance at all. “Ah, fuck, even yer fingers are fucken massive.”
Soap’s hips are twitching down against Simon’s hand with every gentle thrust he gives, adding the second finger and scissoring them earns Ghost a high pitched whine and a series of expletives he can’t quite make out. It may have been a while since he’s had a partner but Simon knows what he’s doing and he curls the fingers just so until he can stroke right over Soap’s prostate. The reaction is immediate, Soap’s body jackknifes off the bed and Simon brings his free hand down to press his hips down firmly.
“Easy, Johnny, don’t wanna hurt yourself. Christ, fucking look at you.” It really is a picture, one Simon intends to lock into his mind and never let go, Johnny’s skin flushed pink from his cheeks all the way down his chest, hips squirming against Simon’s hold as he relentlessly traces his fingertips across his prostate, pressure just this side of too light.
Simon eases a third finger in and he’s not sure Soap even notices, he’s too lost to the overwhelming sensations he’s feeling.
He definitely notices the fourth.
“Jesus fuck, Simon, I asked ye to get yer cock into me, not shove yer whole fucken hand up there.” It doesn’t seem that sincere, what with the way he’s grinding hard and relentless down onto the fingers spreading him open. He releases one of his hands from it’s white knuckled grip on the pillow by his head and slides it down to grip Simon’s wrist, tries to adjust the angle to give more pressure where he wants it, which Simon resists a little meanly.
“You asked for my cock, which as you’ve pointed out is a little above average-”
“‘A little’ Aye and I’m only ‘a little’ enthusiastic about blowing stuff up.”
“Proving my point.” Simon smirks, smugly, and he presses harder against Soap’s prostate which effectively shuts him up.
He let’s it go on just a little longer, until there are tears building in the corner of Soap’s eyes and his other hand has drifted down to claw at Simon’s shoulder. God he hopes it leaves marks.
“Please, Si, babe, please it’s enough, I need you. Don’t-” he breaks off as an almost-sob wracks his body and his thighs start to tremble just a little.
“Don’t what, darling, use your words.”
“Fuck off, bawbag.” Soap grunts, and then, “Don’t want to come until yer in me, please, please.” And then he’s breaking off into a high whine as Simon starts to pull his fingers out.
“Shhh.” Simon’s clean hand reaches to brush the few tears which have finally slid from the corners of Soap’s eyes. “It’s alright, darling, I’m gonna give you what you want, yeah?”
He presses kisses haphazardly across Soap’s face as he lines himself up, begins to press himself inside. He’s done his work well and when he searches Soap’s face he sees no sign of pain as he eases in, inch by agonising, glorious inch.
“Ah, fucken, can feel ye in my throat, so big, perfect for me Si. Made for me, just for me.” Soap’s hand threads into Simon’s hair, tugging at the curls just enough to sting, the other rakes down his back and Simon suppresses a feral grin when he realises the nails are definitely leaving red trails in their wake.
Simon lifts Soap’s legs, hoists his thighs until he wraps them around his waist properly, the two intertwined so completely it feels like they’ll never be able to be separated.
“Can I move?” He grunts into Johnny’s ear, close to the limit of his current ability to speak.
“Fucken better.” Simon grins and turns to nip at Soap’s throat before capturing his mouth again as he starts a steady rhythms with his hips, slow and long.
It’s perfect, so perfect.
Soap seems to think so too if the litany of praise and thanks he starts spewing is anything to go by. Simon adjusts the angle of his thrusts just so and the pitch of Johnny’s moans changes enough to know that he’s definitely hitting his mark now.
Simon speeds up just a little, feels his orgasm starting to build in the base of his spine, lets his teeth scrape down from Johnny’s slack mouth to his jaw, sucks kisses there. He’s so lost in it all that he almost doesn’t hear the cadence of Soap’s moans change, sliding from whimpers of pleasure into grunts of almost-pain.
Ghost slows his thrusts, draws back onto his elbows.
“Ah, no, fuck don’t stop, Si.”
“Johnny?”
“It’s nothing.” Except Soap won’t quite meet his eye.
“Sergeant.” Simon tries in the most authoritative voice he can manage when he’s panting hard and still balls-deep inside him. Either the tone works or the look in his eyes is panicked enough because Soap rolls his eyes.
“Calm down, LT, it’s just ma fucken knee, something about this position is cramping it right up.”
“Why the fuck wouldn’t you just say that then?” Simon stares at him and Soap manages to flush even deeper than he already was.
“Ye were so in the zone, it was hot, I didnae want to ruin it.”
“Fuckin ‘ell.” Simon mutters and without any further warning pulls back and out of Johnny and flips him over onto his stomach. Soap squawks indignantly but also starts muttering something about ‘putting that strength to good use’ so Simon figures he’s probably forgiven.
He sets about positioning Johnny on his stomach, pillow beneath his hips and knee out to the side, slides his own body over until he’s draped across him, cock nestled between his cheeks.
“This feel better?” Simon whispers it into Soap’s ear as he rests his forehead on Soap’s temple.
“How much do you fucken weigh, Si, Christ.” but before he can try and slide away to reposition Soap is catching both his hands and twining their fingers against the mattress either side of his head. “Feels perfect.”
Simon just grunts at him, pulls his hand back just enough to guide his cock back into the waiting heat of Soap’s hole and then reaches out to tangle their fingers once again. The angle now doesn’t allow him to go quite as deep but it feels more intimate somehow, so much skin touching they may actually have fused together, and the angle presses even harder against Soap’s prostate, whose vocabulary has been reduced to just whines. He sets a fast pace, thrusts consistent enough to regularly scrape the head of his cock over Soap’s sweet spot.
“I’m not gonna last much longer, Johnny.” Simon groans, hips barely withdrawing now, just grinding slow and filthy as deep as he can get into the tight grip of Soap’s body. There’s sweat dripping down his brow and slicking the skin where their bodies are pressed together.
“Fuck, inside me, Simon, please give it to me, let me feel it? Fill me up?” And honestly? Simon has never been able to deny Johnny anything, why would he start here?
His orgasm hits him hard enough that he whites out, buries himself as deep inside Johnny as he can and lets go, painting Johnny’s insides with his release. His whole body tenses, pressing impossibly closer to Johnny, effectively crushing him beneath him. He can’t actually speak, which is probably good because he would almost certainly be declaring his undying love if he could, instead he he presses his teeth into the nape of Soap’s neck and waits for the aftershocks to stop.
He’s just beginning to get som brain power back as he hears Johnny let out a desperate keen and feels his hips twitching helplessly down onto the mattress, his hole clenching rhythmically around Simon enough to push him into sweetly painful overstimulation, milking the last of his come from his cock. Johnny comes for a long time, body rocking between the pillow under his cock and Simon still buried in his arse.
“Fuck.” Soap offers into the following silence. Simon snorts in response.
“Hang on.” He eases himself out of Johnny, shushing him gently as he whines. He strokes a tender hand through Soap’s mohawk. Suddenly feeling incredibly smug about his own post-masturbatory laziness he reaches over to rummage in the drawer for his packet of wet wipes, cleaning Johnny as thoroughly as he can, paying particular attention to his abused rim. He gives himself a cursory wipe and flumps back down half over Soap’s chest where he’s rolled over onto his back.
“Hey, Johnny?” Simon pants, breathing still embarrassingly ragged for a highly trained operative.
“Aye?”
“What’s the difference between you and a chocolate eclair?”
“Don’t fucken dare, Simon, I swear tae fuck-”
“Eclairs don’t normally beg for their cream filling.” He’s laughing hard enough that the pillow hitting his face barely even muffles him. Soap slings a leg over him and sits on his stomach, using the pillow to smother him in a way that might actually be worrying if he wasn’t laughing just as hard.
“Ah hate ye.” Soap splutters, moving the pillow to grin down into Simon’s face.
“No, you don’t.” He says, more sure of that than he thinks he’s been in his adult life.
“No.” Soap says easily, leaning in to press his smile to Simon’s, a vague attempt at a kiss despite them both still grinning “I really don’t.”