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Ghost can feel the ravenous presence, like a starved, rabid mutt prowling the back alleys of a butcher shop, following at his back. He has been feeling it since before the mission even ended.
He felt it while he lay prone in the tall grass, his sniper rifle sighted and aimed—a quick, precise pull of the trigger, barrel not so much as flinching. The shell landed somewhere off to his right, echoed by a small trail of smoke as the brass seared a pot mark on the ground.
But the heat from the metal and gunpowder meant nothing compared to the cerulean eyes he could feel raking along his body far off across the hot zone on the other side of a scope.
Ghost is just surprised his body isn’t pot marked, the scorching blaze of those eyes leaving incriminating evidence everywhere they lingered.
Ghost felt it on the way to exfil. He felt it on the helo. He felt it at the armoury and the quick debrief. And he can feel it now, somewhere behind him in the hallway as he makes his way back to his quarters.
He knows what that gaze wants—knows why that gaze is so heated—but fucking hell, month long reconnaissance mission followed by a week long stake out looking for their HVT and Ghost is absolutely bloody knackered. Which, granted, isn’t that big a deal. Exhaustion is just a mindset, one that Ghost can’t give two shits about.
Always has been. Always will.
What was a big deal was the thick grime coating his teeth. Ghost hadn’t brushed his teeth in four days—and even then it was with the shitty travel kit he tucked behind his vest—and he could feel the plaque, fuzzy and heavy in his mouth. When he runs his tongue along the back of his teeth he can practically taste it. Ghost is amenable to scraping all his enamel off with a metal file if he doesn’t have to feel that layer of tacky crud anymore.
Which is why he needs to brush his teeth.
And why he is aiming to get as much distance between himself and the source of that gaze as humanly possible.
Door successfully unlocked, Ghost slips into his room, then promptly turns the lock back with a small click. Without bothering to remove his kit, he makes his way to the washroom.
Opening the drawer of the vanity, he grabs his toothbrush and his toothpaste. It’s the strongest one he’s ever found, mint corrosive enough it’s probably burning a hole through his oesophagus. But it’s exactly what he needs—any and all sensation seared off his tongue and his teeth, leaving fresh winter mint in its wake.
That instinctual beast curled up inside him feels the weight of another presence in the room before he even hears the soft swish of fabric. Ghost turns, grabbing the wrist headed for his throat with a metal grip. He goes to twist but is caught off guard by the foot that makes contact with the interior of his knee. Weight now unbalanced, the assailant makes themselves an opening, grabbing a fistful at Ghost’s scruff and pinning him down against the vanity.
A foot pushes at one of Ghost’s ankles, shoving his legs further apart before a knee and a searing heat take its place in the crook of his arse.
“Johnny,” Ghost growls. “G’the fock off—” His threat is cut off by an involuntary sigh as Soap’s full weight folds on top of him.
The hand at the base of Ghost’s neck slides underneath the edge of his balaclava, exposing a sliver of pale skin soiled with dirt and sweat. A wet mouth latches onto flesh as Soap’s thumb digs harshly into his splenius capitis.
God, does the pressure feel good and his cock is quickly becoming personally acquainted with the unforgiving corner of the ceramic, but it all fails to distract him from the fuzz in his mouth— barely.
“ Soap. ” It’s chastising, poured with as much authority he can muster.
“Ghost?” Soap breathes back, accent molten fire against the flesh of Ghost’s neck.
Ghost looks up into the mirror, ignoring his own reflection to glance at the man behind him. Soap’s eyes are already staring right back. Every colour that isn’t that deep cobalt fixated on him from beneath those dark eyelashes looks right drab.
Holding eye contact through the mirror, Soap bites down, canines just shy of drawing blood . He kneads the abused skin with his tongue, pressure unforgiving, then sucks it into the warmth of his mouth in time with a slow but unrelenting drag of his hips.
“Fu— ah… ” Ghost can’t help the breathy groan that comes out. It’s quickly becoming a losing battle. “F-fuckin’ hell, shove off.”
“Can’t,” Soap drawls into the shell of his ear. He licks over the balaclava and a shiver claws up Ghost’s spine at the burning heat left behind in the dampness. “Don’t wanna,” Soap corrects.
A particularly ruthless thrust catches Ghost off guard and his hip bones slam into the ceramic hard enough to bruise despite his thick trousers and utility belt. The hand that isn’t at Ghost’s neck instantly skates down to push below his belt and clutches at the sore skin, grip both soothing and punishing. The mirror fogs as Ghost moans open mouthed, sound echoing through the room.
Teeth now exposed to the air, the fuzz coating his mouth becomes overwhelming, arousal flitting away as his brain rages at the sensation. Mind cleared of the allure of Soap’s searing touch, Ghost abruptly shoves off the sink. Unprepared, Soap can’t do much as Ghost shoves him harshly to his knees by the hand Ghost wraps around his neck.
“Ruthless, bloody mutt,” Ghost grounds out, bent at the waist, face loaming inches from his Sergeant’s. “Never fuckin’ listen.”
“Course no’, sir.” Soap palms himself, then shamelessly ruts up against his hand under the heavy weight of Ghost’s stare, whose pupils are black pools of endless want. “Never do,” he preens, words delivered into the crackle of tension pocketed in the limited space between their lips. Ghost wouldn’t even care if they stayed here long enough to consume all of the oxygen in the air, slowly being poisoned by the carbon monoxide straight from Soap’s lungs.
Your teeth, a voice in the back of his mind reminds him, keeping him falling head first into the captivating distraction of his Sergeant’s brazen disobedience. Brush your fucking teeth.
A tanned hand slithers forward, aiming to grip at the meat of Ghost’s calf but he halts its movement with a precise kick of his leg, pinning Soap’s wrist to the ground with his bulky boot. “I’ll hafta teach ya how to follow orders,” he growls, each word a rolling wave in a sluggish tide. He grinds his boot down, pressure brutal, the bones of Soap’s hand grating against the tile floor.
Soap tenses at the unexpected spark of pain but his grimace blends right into a shit-eating smile, a breathy growl low enough to reverberate through the room.
Ghost turns to the vanity because holy fuck. He keeps his boot strong, trapping the Scot’s wrist and leaving him to stew. At an overly meticulous pace, Ghost gathers his toothbrush from where it landed askew and squeezes a generous dollop of toothpaste along the bristles. He turns on the tap and wets it underneath the water with a quick flick of his wrist.
With a thumb, he lifts the edge of the balaclava, rucking it up between the hardshell and his upper lip. He pivots back to Soap, looking down at his Sergeant who tries his damnedest to look unperturbed. But Ghost knows what to look for and the evidence is nothing but damning.
Soap’s chest expands with slow, greedy breaths, the blues of his eyes reduced to ringlets around pitch black, and his muscled thighs are pulled taut to keep himself from squirming on his knees. Not to mention the hard length straining against his trousers. If only the jeans weren’t so dark, otherwise he knows he’d be able to see the growing wet spot as well.
“Do whatcha want,” he relents, tone forcefully flat. Only once the toothbrush is in his mouth does Ghost release Soap’s wrist.
The sharp bite of mint hitting his tongue instantly soothes the unpleasant crick in his mind and his lids slip shut in relief. Soft circles of his wrist clear away the fuzz from his teeth. It’s as good as a cup of ice cold water first thing in the morning or a smoke in the late autumn breeze. All of the tension in his body succumbs to gravity and seeps into the floor.
After the first few refreshing moments remain uninterrupted, he looks down, rightfully curious.
In an act of uncharacteristic restraint, Soap remains relatively moored. He’s in the same position on his knees, although a foggy glaze muddles the tenacious tint of his eyes. The tension in his body is absent as if Soap’s capability of being placid is solely reliant on Ghost’s own mood. As though Soap’s mind and body are tethered to the mind and body of Ghost’s, and he can’t help but be content when he knows his Lieutenant is content as well.
A rush of power, coupled with unconditional adoration, burns Ghost’s nerves alight, an all-consuming tingle leaving every hair standing on end. This man, who is a ruthless RPG hurtling towards all that stand in his way, looks at Ghost like he is his saviour, and, bloody hell, does Ghost want nothing more than to keep him locked behind his rib cage, cocooned in the beating flesh of his heart, and give him everything he could ever ask for.
Ghost is lost—for this man, and this man only.
“Goan then,” he says around the toothbrush. His Sergeant just needs some orders, and, God, will Ghost give them to him.
It’s like a heavy rain washes away the fog because in the next second, the Scot’s slid himself forward and is mouthing at Ghost’s growing cock through his trousers. Soap’s hands come to grasp at his arse and even through the thick material the raw power in the Sergeant’s war-forged fingers is enough to have Ghost releasing a pleased sigh.
One drop of toothpaste escapes from the corner of his mouth, landing on the fabric already moist from Soap’s incessant mouth. The Scot clocks the movement immediately and the foamy liquid disappears as he presses the full length of his tongue over it.
Ghost’s hips give a tiny thrust forward, the high he desperately wants to chase overpowering his self control at the sight, but he quickly reigns it in, his desire to toy with the Scot even more enticing. He schools his impression, biting down on the toothbrush to keep his mouth a flat, disinterested line.
Soap doesn’t stay in one place for long, calloused palms roaming up his hips and underneath his kit, some moments gluttonous and all consuming, nails digging into his flesh til they draw blood and stark purple and blue bruises left by fingertips, and others so soft, calluses just barely catching along his skin, sending little sparks of pleasure through his body.
The dichotomy leaves him breathless.
Soap’s always been greedy, both in what he gives and what he takes, and Ghost feels high off of it. The Scot devours every drop of sweat and dirt and blood Ghost has to offer. A harsh, cut-off exhale escapes him as his nose smushes against Ghost’s zip. When he adjusts his position yet again, Ghost can see the glossy spit smeared across his lips, his lower face, and the tip of his nose. The overhead light catches in it, turning his freckles and the scar on his chin into pure stardust.
Stardust Ghost wants to inject into his bloodstream.
Keeping his hips parallel to Soap, he turns and spits the excess toothpaste. A displeased rumble in the back of Soap’s throat reverberates against Ghost’s trousers at the shift in attention.
“Patience, Johnny,” Ghost warns, looking down his nose at his Sergeant. “Can’t give ya what you’re gaggin’ for unless you’re patient.”
“Ye don’t love me for my patience, darlin’.” Soap’s accent leaves every word heavy and ardent in the marrow of Ghost’s bones.
“Never too old to teach a temperamental dog new tricks.” The retort is emphasised as Ghost moves his boot between Soap’s legs, digging the metal toe into the solid bulge. When blue eyes roll back into Soap’s skull, Ghost knows his act of discipline fell flat.
Disappointed…?
Sure.
Surprised…?
Not one bit.
Army lads and their few too many wires crossed—and this one was the worst of them all.
Soap ruts down hard on the offered boot. “And why— mnngh… why would you wanna do that when you’re gaggin’ for it as much as I am,” he says, words spoken open-mouthed against Ghost’s crotch.
“And why would I be gaggin’ for this sloppy shite? Some real soggy nosh, that.” He removes his boot from between Soap’s legs, unperturbed by the bitten-off, rumbled complaint he gets in response.
“C’mon, Johnny. Fill that fuckin’ mouth. Gracious ‘nuff to give ya what you’ve been droolin’ over for the past bloody month ‘n this’s all ya’ve got.” Ghost curls his fist into Soap’s thick hair, muscling him from off Ghost’s crotch to tilt his head back and up at him. “Not worth my fuckin’ time,” he sneers before putting the toothbrush back in his mouth.
That cerulean gaze ignites, the blaze spreading and igniting every inch of Ghost’s skin. They stay on him, blue revelling in brown as he moves. “Ah’ll make it…” He grips the zip between his teeth and pulls down, revealing black pants straining around Ghost’s cock. “Worth…” It’s exhaled around a wet kiss placed on his tip, slightly exposed from his foreskin and peaking above the waistband of his pants, leaking against his stomach. “Yer…” Soap bites the waistband, pulling that down until it cups just below Ghost’s balls. “Fockin’ time,” he growls, brogue impossibly husky and deep, practically reverbing through the floor and the soles of Ghost’s boots into his bloodstream.
The brushing has all but stopped, the toothbrush held limply in his stilled hand, and he has to tighten his grasp on the mohawk to spur himself back to the present, aided by the breathy moan and the hot air he feels released against his length. Somehow, the hand holding the brush resumes and he lets a faux, bored disinterest wash away the rising heat pinkening his face.
When that mouth moves in, lips making the briefest of whispers up the underside of his cock before stopping at his head, hovering just above but what feels like miles away, Ghost’s hips almost twitch forward, desperate to be engulfed by those blistering flames flickering from the Scot. Nails biting into his own skin around the dark hair in his hand is the only thing that keeps him still.
This isn’t about the now. Sure, Ghost really did have to brush his teeth, and yes, they have long since been thoroughly cleaned, but now he’s playing a game. One he fully intends to win.
He concedes a reluctant grunt and shifts his focus to the off-white paint chipping from off the walls. The loss of those cerulean eyes fixed on him is pure bloody torment but worth every penny as it reminds Soap that he’s yet to make this worth his time. Competitive as the bastard is, Ghost knows the act will only make him up his game—and one hell of a game it is even when he’s at his lowest. He suppresses a shudder at that lovely thought.
The only warning he gets is the tightening of Soap’s grip on his arse. His tip hits the back of Soap’s throat as he takes in his length, getting a little more than halfway down before he stops, a small gag and a seizing of his throat that travels all the way from Ghost’s cock to his fucking fingertips. After taking a few moments to adjust around Ghost’s size—he doesn’t need much considering how much time his throat’s been stretched around his cock—he hollows out his cheeks and bobs his head up, tongue traversing along a prominent vein. There’s a small knick from his teeth, one that he knows will drive Ghost crazy.
Sparks explode behind his eyes as unbridled, molten gold courses through his veins. Soap’s pace is slow, and it's relenting, and after each upstroke he digs his tongue between Ghost’s foreskin, working his tip with a torturous circle. Ghost is hurtling towards the cliff drop at an alarming rate. He feels the way his balls draw up, heavy and tight with his release, as the warmth that pools in the small of his back becomes unbearable.
The sounds tumbling out of his mouth no longer hold the air of indifference. His eyes have long since fallen shut in bliss, head tilted back, as he’s overwhelmed by the unconditional attention and the heady smell of sex wafting from his love at his feet.
A rush of iron and a stab of pain floods his mouth, and his tongue probes the spot where he bit the inside of his cheek. The dull pain and the metallic taste of his own blood do nothing to keep his rising orgasm at bay—quite the opposite in fact.
It’s too early for that. Ghost loves riding that edge, getting himself as close to it as he can and staying there. Hours of letting that heat build until he can taste the flames licking in the back of his throat.
With the domineering grasp he has on Soap’s hair, Ghost tries to yank him off before he falls prey to the coiled heat in his gut. Soap fights against it, using the hands he has on Ghost’s arse to keep close and sucks down hard, nose buried in the dark blond of Ghost’s pubic hair.
He looks up through thick lashes clumped with tears, eyes brimming with molten want as he huffs deep lungfuls of musty scent through his nose, neatly trimmed scruff scratching against Ghost’s abdomen, until the muscles in his neck give out under the strength of Ghost’s grip, hardened from years of holding a gun.
A line of spit bridges the gap between Ghost’s flushed tip and Soap’s swollen lips, and he has to abandon the toothbrush in his mouth to squeeze the base of his cock because that image of sinful desire right there fundamentally changes him, searing in all it’s glory onto the back of his eyelids and the grey matter of his brain and every atom of his being.
He didn’t think he’d ever be able to love, not after the life he’s led. But here he is, falling, falling, falling even more than he already has, impossibly deeper, crash landing into the open arms of his Johnny, their rib cages entangling together until they’re eternally amalgamated from the force of their devotions.
“Careful, darlin’,” Soap starts, voice burned raw and so fucking deep. “Startin’ t’look like ye might jes be enjoyin’ it.”
Ignoring the sass is a test of patience, but he has plenty of practice, his Johnny being as ruthless as he is. He places the toothbrush down somewhere behind him.
Hand now free, he pats Soap’s cheek twice, then digs his thumb into the side of his mouth until it opens under the pressure. Soap sticks out his tongue—obedient for all the wrong reasons. Viscous smears of white from Ghost’s pre-cum linger on the muscle.
Ghost leans forward and spits the cocktail of toothpaste and thick saliva right onto Soap’s waiting tongue. It meets the pre-cum and Soap holds his jaw open wider until it must hurt, tongue still and outstretched, posturing beautifully for Ghost. A strangled moan works its way out of Soap’s throat and a vicious, full-body shudder racks his powerful frame. Ghost tracks the way his Adam’s apple bobs, desperate to swallow down all that Ghost gave him, and he lets out an approving hum at the sight.
Soap’s fingers dig into the meat of Ghost’s thighs as he hungrily swallows, lascivious azure half hidden by lids heavy with unbridled pleasure. Soap’s hips roll downward, searching for some sort of release. When he finds none, he looks up at Ghost.
“Ah’m gonna fuck ye stupid, sir.” Soap says, his steady tone betrayed by the desperate magma leaking from his eyes.
“Will you, now?” Ghost rumbles back, dominant gaze holding his Sergeant in place. “Because more often than not, you’re the one left drunk off some measly hole.”
“Bin havin’ dreams about me cryin’ for it, lately? Ah’m honoured, L.t. Too bad ye’re no’ that good of a shag. Ah’d love to cry over some first rate hole.”
“Gonna have to ask a little bettah than that, Johnny,” Ghost purrs, too sweet compared to the heavy hand he wraps around Soap’s throat, fingers digging in deep and palm flattened against tan skin until he can feel Soap’s racing heartbeat.
A strangled grasp spills from the Scot’s lips, swollen lips cherry red and parted. Soap’s eyes are lost to the back of his skull.
“Lemme fuck you,” he rasps, throat constricted by Ghost’s hand. Ghost tightens even more and is met with a greedy whine. “Mnn, please. Ah’ll make ye feel—ngh… so fucking good… mo chridhe.” Despite it all, his words are still tinged with cocky sureness.
Ghost can’t wait to break him. He always does, after all.
And he knows just how he’s going to do it.
“Careful whatcha ask for, luv.”
As soon as Ghost walks through the threshold and back into his room, Soap is on him, deft hands unlatching his kit with a desperate urgency. Years of rushing to put on and take off kit leaves Ghost in just his pants and his compression shirt in a record setting time. Both are crusted with musk and still wet along his back and under his arms from sweat.
He would cringe at the layer of grime— hell, he can smell Soap and himself, pure fucking rank—but its hard to care much when Soap plasters himself along Ghost’s back, running his fingers through Ghost’s matted hair with a dizzying tenderness compared to the way he’s huffing lungfuls of the lingerings of war stained on Ghost’s flesh.
“Smell so fokin’ good.” Soap’s pure bliss leaves his brogue impossibly deeper, accent a perfect mix of husky and heavy. “Taste fokin’ wonderful, sir.”
Ghost is reluctant to admit that the tone distracts him, totally lost in it as his guard drops. Soap takes the opportunity to herd him to the bed, but when the back of his thighs hit the mattress he snaps back, reverting to the unmovable mass that he is.
Soap catches the change immediately, a disgruntled groan rumbled onto the skin of Ghost’s neck. It’s so close to a whine and Ghost’s carnal need to work him until he’s crying is almost a tangible need, hanging thick in the room.
Flipping the tables, Ghost pushes back into Soap’s space, whose effort to resist is cute but futile, until Soap stumbles backwards towards the leather loveseat stashed in the opposing corner from the bed.
Ghost stands tall with his back to the sofa and Soap knows his orders. He sidles up, hands moving with reverence as he slowly peels off Ghost’s remaining clothes, mouth quickly replacing fabric on newly exposed skin. His hands finally have unrestricted access to Ghost’s body and they get to work quickly, soothing sore muscles with steadfast pressure.
When thick fingers trail along the ridge of his shoulder blade towards his spine, then dig deep into his traps, Ghost can’t help but keen. The tangible tension kept trapped in his shoulders throughout the mission turns to a whiskey mist, a lazy sweetness speckling the air.
It leaves him weightless, his mass lowering on its own until he’s reclined on the sofa, eyes slipped shut, arms resting along the top, and legs spread wide. His cock is still half hard and rests heavily against one thick thigh, and the coolness of the sofa’s leather is a balm against his heated skin.
He should feel vulnerable, stark naked as he is, all of his imperfections and the dirt left caked in scars exposed to the air. But he’s not, never has, and never will be, not when basking in the flickering fire of Soap’s gaze. These flames have changed him, burned away all of those words in his head until they’re nothing but ash. His body is anything but imperfect. Ghost knows this for certain because Soap has shown him, has told him, words of devotion whispered over and over in the quiet hours of the night.
And besides, there’s just something about him being naked while Soap remains fully clothed that bestows control to Ghost on a silver platter. How could it not, when he knows he can pull at the lead he’s got around Soap’s throat, keeping him trapped in sight but just out of reach of Ghost just as Tantalus was taunted by food and drink. Here Ghost lays, ripe for the taking, yet in a snap of his fingers he can take it all away.
Soap leans into the space between Ghost’s thighs, lips kissing up his neck and under and along his jaw, before they meet with Ghost’s. The kiss is tender, a passion that’s sweeter than bourbon.
They stay there for some time, kindling the spark that flares between them, unrushed, until it’s a blazing pyre. The whole while, Soap’s hands explore his body, scratching through the buzzed hair at Ghost’s nape and groping the soft layer of fat around his core.
Ghost’s fingers dig into leather, forearms screaming with the force of keeping his arms where they lay along the back of the sofa. Anything to keep him from raking his nails down Soap’s back and pressing his hands against his neck until he's making those sweet little gasps for him again.
Ghost feels the sofa shift beneath him, then feels a clothed knee press up against his stiff cock. The coarse fabric and a bite of metal from a buckle have him twitching, the bead of precum leaking from his slit contrary to the pained gasp that stumbles from his lips and right into Soap’s mouth. Ghost can feel the smug grin break out across the Scot’s mouth.
“Get on wiv it, Johnny,” Ghost demands. “Else I’ll take care of myself.” He drops his voice, Manc accent heavy in his mouth as he traces a finger from just below Soap’s ear, dipping under his shirt, and along his collarbone—it’s featherlight, and he sees the trail of goose bumps left in its wake.
The grin only grows, a canine glinting in the soft light. “Pure fuckin’ rubbish.” Soap noses down a tendon in Ghost’s neck, his next words whispered in the junction of Ghost’s shoulder. “Ye can’t ride yerself.” Lips trail down his sternum, then over the curve of his pec, breath hot against his nipple as Soap lingers teasingly and too long, before moving towards Ghost’s bicep, which still lies curled over the top of the sofa. “Besides, y’have too much fun wae me—always gettin’ aff on drivin’ me absolutely mental. ”
He licks a hot stripe along the muscle, the whole of his tongue flattened against the faded skulls and flames marring his skin. A pleased moan, then rough palms, strong as they run up and down Ghost’s ribs, that turn him slightly.
Soap is greedy when he lands at his final destination. Mouth ravenous at Ghost’s armpit, he consumes all the sweat and musk and blood Ghost has to offer. It’s right fucking minging, Ghost knows it is, but he can’t find a shit to give. Especially since he knows it's just about the Scot’s favourite thing, digging into it like it’s his final meal.
Soap’s noises ramp up, filling the room until it’s flooded with heavy pants and desperate groans. Ghost might as well be intoxicated on it all.
One hand stays at Ghost’s ribs, alternating between soothing circles and trying to outright crack open his ribcage, the other dips, lower and lower, until it skirts over the inside of his thigh, a ticklish back and forth motion that forces his hand. Ghost bites the inside of his cheek, hard, to stave off the debauched noises threatening to come out.
It’s all just so fucking good. Ghost can’t stand it.
The hand at Ghost’s thigh shifts back up, a nail trailed up the vein throbbing in time with his heartbeat and collects the wetness leaking from his tip with a forefinger.
Ghost’s shoulders jerk and his grip on the sofa becomes lethal. The skin around his nails is undoubtedly pure white—even more so with the current redistribution of blood. He wouldn’t be surprised to find the leather ripped to shreds. A cramp works up his arms, his muscles pinching tight and seizing. The pain sends all the wrong signals to his body.
Ghost can’t even recover before Soap’s skating back down, offering a slight press of his thumb into his taint. He then adds his finger, circling Ghost’s tight hole with Ghost’s own spend in tandem with the pressure from his thumb. Soap’s teeth bite deep into the meat of his armpit, tugging slightly at his body hair when he comes back up, wet and matted from sweat and Soap’s spit. Soap quickly returns to lapping at his skin, breathy grunts rumbling deep from his chest.
Ghost’s head hits the back of the sofa, mouth parted, as a silent cry wracks its way from his lungs.
He just needs a little something to release the pressure. Ghost loves it, working himself up, riding that lovely edge for hours and hours until he can’t take it anymore. It's so unbelievably good when he finally does come, but honestly, he likes the build up even more.
He takes in one desperate gasp. “Fuck.” It’s punched from him, voice broken.
A snicker meets his ears.
Johnny’s having too much fun.
It’s with an unbelieving swiftness that Ghost turns the tables, an arm freeing from its caged position along the sofa to grab a handful of Soap’s mohawk. Soap’s neck snaps back under the strength of his hold and he collapses to his knees between Ghost’s legs. It was an ambush, Soap caught utterly unprepared, lost in the intoxicating flavours coating his tongue as he was.
With Soap’s mouth away from his armpit, he can finally feel how wet Soap’s left him. There’s enough spit accumulated there for a glob to do a slow crawl along his ribs and down the hollow of his back. In this moment, it’s his strongest teether to reality. When it trickles farther and farther, reaching his tailbone, then settling in the furl of his hole he can fucking feel it.
He gives a testy clench, then relaxes, repeats a couple of times, trying to coax the foamy liquid inside himself. It probably won’t work—he’s not even stretched out yet—but he’s desperate. Anything to get Soap’s spit in him. Even if it won’t, the thought alone is enough to have that heat low in his gut roiling.
He draws a slow breath through his nose, followed by a cruel smile curling at his lips. “Never lower your guard, Sergeant.” Ghost's head tilts back. Looking down his nose, he exposes the length of his own throat. His free hand comes to wrap around it. “That’s how ya end up with a bullet in your skull…” Ghost trails his hand over his own tits and down his abs. “Your brains blown out…” Calloused fingertips circle the base of his own cock. “Maggots eating at your flesh…” The tug he gives is slow and intense, hips thrusting deep into the meat of his palm with how fucking turned on he is.
The weight of Soap’s stare is a black hole, all of the light in the room consumed by his blown out pupils.
Ghost leans in, licking wet and sloppy at the shell of Soap’s ear, then whispers cruel sweetness, lips brushing against his skin. “And you should know by now…” Ghost exhales, hot breath meeting cooled spit.
Soap fucking shudders.
“The only way that’s happening is if it's by my gun—by my hand. ”
Soap’s back arches into the words, but his response is still cocky and dripping with amusement. “Wouldnae want it any other way, sir . ” He shifts and Ghost feels the hard line of Soap’s cock rutting into his bare feet.
Ghost pulls no punches. Not with his enemies, not with the trainees, and especially not here with the love of his life. He releases the mohawk and pushes his foot against Soap’s clothed cock, hard enough to have his hips sputtering and a growl, both pained and pleased, pushing past his teeth.
Lounging back, arms returning to the tops of the sofa, Ghost removes himself from Soap. His breath catches in his throat at the intensity of the hunger that paces back and forth behind the blue of Soap’s eyes, a beast barely held back by its cage.
Spreading his legs wider, Ghost gives a deprecating laugh. “Well then… ‘Ave at it you cheeky fuck.” He teases his hips in a tiny figure eight, his hard cock bobbing under the weight of his girth.
The bars open with a slow creak. The beast lunges.
Soap slides forward on his knees, his hands snaking under and around his Ghost’s legs to grab at his hips and pull, shifting him forwards, pelvis tilted. One hand comes back around, dropping to spread apart Ghost’s cheeks, exposing the furled muscle to the air.
“Gorgeous,” Soap moans before leaning down, tongue pressed wide and flat to his hole. He makes enthusiastic laps at it, his spit lubing him up. Rugged hands return to Ghost’s hips, drawn into place in the divots moulded into his flesh by those very same hands.
The scene is lewd, love in its most carnal form. Ghost isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to look away. He might die here, and Ghost can’t imagine a better death, least of all for a man like him.
His knuckles resume their death grip on the sofa and his mouth hangs open, moist breaths adding to the suffocating heat in the space between them.
It doesn’t take much longer for Soap to replace wide strokes for precise movements, circling his hole and applying pressure, moaning all the while. With how enthusiastic Soap is, face mashed against Ghost’s arse, Ghost can feel the groans of pleasure vibrating against him in his chest. Combined with his nose rubbing at his perineum and his slightly overgrown beard scuffing across his inner thighs, Ghost can’t do much but get utterly lost in the sensations, his pleased hum echoing off the walls.
He feels high, an ascension offered to him through Soap’s acts of worship.
Ghost hasn’t even realised the absence of a hand on his hip before he feels a new pressure breach his hole. Soap’s finger slides in easily. He curls upwards with precision, the location of Ghost’s prostate all but memorised. While deep strokes tease at that bundle of nerves, Soap drags his lips up, pressing alternating, open-mouthed kisses to his balls and the stretch of skin below them.
Another finger joins the first, temporarily abandoning his prostate to work on stretching him open, movements measured and intense. Every few thrusts, a stray stroke finds that spot once more, teasing a cut-off grunt from Ghost.
His hole finally more pliable, Soap’s tongue returns with fervour, pushing in alongside his fingers, which return to their relentless precision, his hole a fluttering mess in response.
All Ghost can hear is Soap’s deep rumbles and all he can feel is Soap, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. His fingers. His beard. His tongue. His hand drawing shapes on his hip.
Soap is everything.
He slips in another finger.
Ghost keens.
Soap releases a heavy breath, warm air cold against the unwavering heat of his exposed hole. “Ye deserve ma whole fokin’ fist,” he pants, words curling around Ghost’s gut and tugging. “Ye deserve anything… anything you could ever fokin’ want.”
Ghost’s moan blends seamlessly into a hearty chuckle. He stands, forcing Soap to fall back on his haunches. Ghost takes a second to watch, enthralled at Soap’s chest and how the muscle expands around each greedy lungful.
This time, he can’t help the genuine smile that creeps onto his face. He knows Soap catches it because he returns one just as intimate.
Ghost brings a hand up to cup Soap’s cheek. His thumb rubs the corner of his mouth, then over his lips. “You make me feel divine—you know that, right?”
Soap nestles deeper into Ghost’s palm, a knowing laugh let loose against his skin. “Is that a yes to the fisting?”
“‘Hat desperate to get your whole hand in me?” Ghost says.
“Yes.” It’s immediate and resolute.
He lets his palm slide off Soap’s cheek in answer, his nose crinkling up in mirth at how Soap’s bottom lip juts out into a tiny pout.
Light footfalls take him to the ratty, little side table. After rummaging through the contents for a moment, he finds what he’s looking for. Turning, he isn’t surprised to see Soap’s gaze dialled in on his movements, curiosity dripping from every pore.
Ghost passes by the Scot, the small bottle palmed securely in his hand and continues towards the bed.
Silence follows, but Ghost knows Soap’s up and moving behind him, his presence a cluster bomb of arousal at his back. He can feel the blaze nipping at his heels, coiling along the floor and up and around his naked body.
Ghost swirls and catches a wrist heading for his side, flipping their positions in one swift jerk.
Hand against Soap’s chest, Ghost presses forward slowly. His lips follow Soap’s as he falls back, the back of his thighs hitting the edge of the bed, then his weight sinking into the mattress. Ghost places his knees on either side of Soap’s hips, arms to either side of his head.
When Ghost leans down to continue the kiss, chasing the taste of himself from off of Soap’s lips, his leaking tip scrapes featherlight along Soap’s jeans. A twitch and a thick glob of precum are left in its trail, adding to the wetness that has long since seeped into the material from Soap’s own cock, no doubt straining and soaking in its confines.
One hand finds the side of Soap’s thigh, the other slips under Soap’s belt to find his zip. As he pulls it down one tooth at a time, the pressure on Soap’s cock releases, his bulk quickly filling out the fabric of his pants.
Ghost’s hold turns punishing on Soap’s hip at the desperate little thrust he gives, muscling to keep him in place.
“ Ghost, fockin’…” Soap bites his lip. The vein in his neck bulges. A drop of sweat pools in his clavicle. Ghost wants to lick it. “Fockin’ get to it already.”
Ghost gives a monotone hum. A click sounds the zip hitting the end and Ghost trails a finger along Soap’s clothed length ever so slowly, drawing a nondescript pattern before following a throbbing vein up to the waistband. He stops and hovers, engrossed by the way Soap’s cock bulges from between the rigid set of his belt and the tactical straps hugging each of his muscled thighs.
All the while, Soap’s breath hitches, little gasps slipping between the cracks.
“Should wipe that smug smile— mngh … off y-yer bleedin’ face,” Soap heaves.
“Now, how would you do that, Johnny?” Ghost purrs back.
“Take it out, sit yer pretty little cunt on it, ‘n Ah’ll show ya.” It’s an effort for him to get it all out, but even then, it's dripping in confidence in the only way his Sergeant knows how.
All Ghost can hear is the rapid beat of Soap’s heart rate beneath his palm and the blood rushing in his ears. A cruel grin cracks Ghost’s visage, leaving his words humming with condescension. “As you wish, luv.”
Hooking a finger around the waistband, Ghost pulls until Soap’s hard cock slips out and slaps against his stomach, a relieved sigh worming past his lips. Ghost keeps pulling until Soap’s pants snap back against his skin, resting below his bollocks and perfectly framing his hefty length.
A hand, pure pale when compared to the ruddy flesh of Soap’s skin, takes Soap’s cock in hand, fingers barely touching around the size of him.
Ghost flicks his wrist.
“Big fuckin’ boy,” he teases, his palm rubbing at Soap’s slit. “Makes me wonder… Who’d ‘ave the guts to take you if not for me?” Ghost quickens his pace, Soap’s head hitting the sheets as his back arches up.
With Soap’s eyes finally off him, Ghost uses his free hand to pop open the top of the bottle he grabbed from the drawer, the clicking of the cap drowned out by the litany of Soap’s hoarse moans. He flips the bottle, then squeezes, watching as the viscous liquid drips onto Soap’s head.
“Plenty o’ birds lined up fer a—” Soap’s words are cut off in a silent gasp, fiery blues smothered as they roll backwards.
The smirk on Ghost’s face is villainous as he collects the flavoured lube—a tingly, smouldering, minty concoction—and smears it down Soap’s length. It gives a dangerous throb at the abrupt sensation.
Ghost rolls his hips down against Soap’s clothed thighs, the memory of the feeling of the lube stark in his mind. A freezing burn. A cold front meeting a warm one, the pressure condensing until a gush of rainfall descends. Goosebumps in your throat and shot nerves that fire without stop. You feel it in every inch of your skin and every notch of your vertebrae.
And yet you’re half convinced you can’t feel it at all.
“ Fuckin’ hell— Simon…” he whines, voice wrecked. “What— ahh... What is t-that?”
“Cheeky cunt that you were, pouncin’ on me while I was brushin’ my teeth. Figured I’d repay the favour.” Ghost adds his second hand, working both masterfully, as he all but humps Soap’s thigh, the burn from the friction of Soap’s kit leaving the inside of his legs scratched and raw—a right fucking delight.
“So, wha’ d’we say, Johnny? Too much? Wanna stop?”
“God, fuck! Don’t you fockin’ dare,” he snarls.
After coating more lube down the length of Soap’s cock, Ghost rises to his knees. “Good choice.”
He sinks down to the hilt, the meat of his arse meeting Soap’s thighs with a resounding clap.
Heat and ice flood his core, a thousand pinpricks flashburning his spinal cord into ashes. Then more heat, thick and spurting and so fucking much, filling up his guts until it leaks out around Soap’s cock.
Soap jerks, hips thrusting desperately to ride out his blind-siding organism. By the tense set of his jaw and the vein bulging in his forehead and the guttural wail consuming the air in the room, Ghost knows it's going to be a great night.
“Bit quick there, Sergeant,” Ghost taunts, voice a little breathy himself—it’d be hard not to with Soap’s perfect bulk. “Thought you were gonna fuck me stupid?”
His words fall on deaf ears as Ghost pulls off, one excruciating inch at a time, then grinds down just as slowly until he’s even deeper, until Ghost can taste the mint of the lube in his throat.
Soap’s cock is already thickening back to fully hard, his refractory period a thing of wonder.
“Oh, fuck… Simon… ” One orgasm in and his eyes already look hazy, the last remaining flecks of domineering arrogance clawing to keep its head above water.
Taking up a consistent pace, Ghost begins to work himself towards that cliff he so dearly chases, Soap’s wanton moans, his own panting breaths, and the tingling cold-hot of the lube consuming his senses.
Each bounce on Soap’s cock is intense, and only when the fat of his arse is smushed against Soap’s pelvis does he cant his hips forward just so until Soap’s tip presses into his prostate. Then, Ghost begins the climb back up once more.
Soap holds onto his hips with an overwhelmed desperation. His blunt nails are harsh against his skin, the spark of pain joining with the sensations from the lube.
It’s all just a glacial inferno, sparks of winter and chips of flame, building and building.
His fingers card through the coarse hair dusted on tanned pecs.
Soap moans something unintelligible. Another flood of warmth coats his insides. Hardened muscles tremble below him.
And it’s all his.
Ghost’s right fucking there, his back clenching in anticipation and his balls drawing taught.
This edge. He wants nothing more than to just chase this edge all night. Even if he never actually cums, the chase alone would be enough.
Just when he’s about to succumb, the line to that edge blurring just so, he fully pulls off of Soap’s cock with a wet pop. Any cum and lube that wasn’t already fucked out of him slowly starts seeping out of his hole to join the frothy mess staining Soap’s kit and the sheets.
Soap all but shudders, a choked whimper catching in his throat. The sizzling artic in his eyes is dulled by his lids, heavy with pleasure.
Ghost’s voice is a husky rumble when he asks, “How many times was that, Sergeant?” in the curve of Soap’s neck, one thumb coming up to pet at the skin above the collar of his shirt, stained dark with sweat. He should mark him up more now that he thinks about it.
With his hands… With his mouth—doesn’t really matter.
Might as well do both.
“No’ enuff.” Soap’s voice is nothing but a hoarse crackle. “Fockin’ use me, sir. D-didn’t feel like y’meant it.”
Ghost can’t help but trace the scar on his chin, which pulls up with the toothy, open mouthed grin Soap gives.
“Want me to use your fat fuckin’ cock? Ride ya even when you’re flagging? Ring ya dry for all that you’ve got? Keep myself plugged ‘til it fuckin’ takes?” Ghost asks in a husky rush in hopes of hearing the plea one more time.
“ Uhmm, fuck— please, ” Soap moans, his hips wriggling beneath Ghost. “Take what’s yours.”
Ghost leans back slowly, basking in Soap’s scotch-warmed words.
‘Yours.’
Mine.
He reaches back for the lube. Each little noise ripped from Soap’s throat as the liquid drips down his length carves itself into Ghost’s skin, covering each violent scar until he’s made of nothing but Soap’s adoration.
He sinks down once more, his gaping hole stretching around Soap’s girth until he’s full, body and soul. His hand is a gentle caress when it returns to Soap’s throat.
It's too alluring, the chance to keep Soap’s life chained in his hands.
“ Take it, sir.”
He can feel his Sergeant’s words through his palm, vibrations low and tumble, and his pulse thunders. Soap’s hand joins his, a featherlight weight along the sensitive skin at his wrist, feeling his own pulse point. It’s just as fast.
Ghost lifts himself until Soap’s head is just inside the stretch of his rim.
His hand tightens around Soap’s neck, fingers digging between tendons and muscles.
Soap’s jaw drops open in ecstasy. A raspy moan, void of air, sputters from his lungs.
And all Ghost can do is watch Soap’s face, his senses unequivocally enthralled. He loses control, patience all but drained dry, and slams down hard.
He rides fast and intense. The incinerating freeze of the lube, the gorgeous strain in his quads, and the feel of Soap’s neck locked in his hands are the only things keeping him tied to this earth.
“Ah, bleedin’ hell… Yes, p-please .” Soap’s voice is barely there, the pressure of Ghost’s hand restricting his throat.
“Good boy… mgh. S-stretchin’ me out so well,” Ghost croons, the praise just another tactic to get Soap riled up. He clenches on the next downstroke and can feel Soap’s rapid heartbeat beating in his cock through the walls of his hole.
Soap can’t do much more than babble, every word laced with heavy breaths. “Oh god, Ah-Ah’m gonna—”
“Do it…” Ghost sounds just as wrecked, his hand tightening even more. Soap’s cock is a throbbing inferno inside him. “Fill me up—all you’ve got.”
Hot spurts of spend add to the combusting ice from the lube. Ghost’s body is nothing but a snowstorm in the middle of July.
He stills, letting that edge fall out of reach once again. Panting through the comedown, the sparks of lightning wane into a faraway thunderstorm.
When his vision clears, he sees Soap, who’s nothing but a whiney mess underneath him. He relaxes his grasp on Soap’s neck but keeps his hand there, shifting his fingers slightly to see the red left in their wake.
“Beautiful,” he purrs, thumb soothing the tender skin.
“S-Simon, you feel so fockin’—” Soap mumbles, words slurred and barely formed. “You’re so fockin’ h-hot… It’s so fockin’ much.”
Before Soap can even begin to recover, Ghost starts grinding again, much to Soap’s pleased dismay. He’s still soft, but even then Ghost is filled to the hilt. His thighs scrape against Soap’s kit once again. They’re no doubt rubbed raw, but, bloody hell, he loves it.
He grabs the lube, pouring some in his palms before roaming his hands over his own body. Everywhere the cold air touches his flesh sends little flecks of snow down his spine.
Looking down his nose, his eyes meet Soap’s, whose blown pupils make his eyes look just as dark as Ghost’s own. Soap’s gaze leaves his, instead following the trail his hands make over his body. With the little remaining strength Soap has left, he raises his hands, creating a path of his own as they explore his body, collecting and spreading even more of the lube across his arms and his pecs and his thighs and everywhere else.
“So fuckin’— ah … so fuckin’ big for me.” Ghost leans forward, letting spit gather in his mouth.
Soap must be able to tell because he opens in anticipation, tongue a twitching muscle of greed as it prostrates for him.
Ghost ruts his hips down even harder, Soap’s balls slapping against his arse with the force. He spits, his saliva a trail between his mouth and Soap’s, who’s moaning before the froth even hits his tongue. Soap swallows immediately, his hands clenching around Ghost’s hips, possessive and overcome.
Ghost bends down to chase the string of spit, collecting more in his mouth to let pool into Soap’s when their mouths meet, messy and violent. Each one consumes all that the other has to offer.
His naked torso is so vulnerable compared to Soap’s kit, his sensitive nipples and his leaking cock even more so as they rut against his tactical gear. Soap’s hands move to his back, nails clawing to pull him even closer and Ghost can’t help but oblige, his rib cage creaking under the pressure. This close, the potency of Soap’s smell and his taste—all blood and sweat and gun oil—sets him ablaze.
“Makin’ me feel so bloody good, luv,” he whispers in between kisses, each word followed by a snap of his hips.
Soap preens under the praise. “Love it… love making you feel— mngh… f-feel good, mo chridhe. Love it when you milk me dry.”
“Good thing you’re young and healthy. Fat fuckin’ cock of yours, filling me up over ‘n over till I’m dripping with it.” Ghost licks into Soap’s mouth, feeding him the fresh mint of the toothpaste still lingering on his tongue.
“ Simon… please,” Soap whines into his mouth. “F-fook, I love fockin’ y’full. Gonna make it— haa… m-make it take. ”
“Get me pregnant then, Johnny.” Ghost leans back up, his chest heaving around each heavy breath as he returns to his intense rhythm from before, spearing himself open.
A few harsh thrusts downwards and then Ghost hears what he can only describe as a choked shriek. He looks down, concern slowing the pump of his hips, half expecting to see Soap seizing from a cramp.
Instead, a roaring gush of burning liquid fills his stomach, a right torrential current, its stream powerful against the walls of his hole. He feels it all, each subsequent splurt. Soap writhes beneath him, moans salted with the taste of tears now streaming down his face.
“Oh, fuck… Johnny! ” he keens, “Did you just—”
The heat and the absolute volume of liquid in him are overwhelming, more stimulation than he’s ever felt before, and he’s desperate.
He fucks himself even harder on Soap’s cock, cum and so much piss leaking out of him with each downstroke. He tries to clench as he rides Soap through it, to keep everything Soap gave him inside, but it's just too much.
The stains on Soap’s clothes and the puddles on the sheets are far past sticky and most likely teetering into absolute rank. It’s such a waste. He would far more prefer it plugged in him. Or better yet, down his throat and heavy in his stomach, but the thought of pulling off now, of removing himself from the eternal build up he’s created…
That would be a right fucking sin worthy of the deepest deeps of hell.
Soap stills, his jaw slack, nothing but ecstasy painted on his face. Ghost is pretty sure his brains have been fucked out—most likely incapable of speech, not with the way he’s sobbing, moans debauched and shuddering.
Ghost honestly isn’t doing much better.
Which is why, when he makes the mistake of looking down, past his tits—which bounce with each powerful thrust—and to his engorged stomach…
I look fucking pregnant.
And…
Oh .
He pulls off in a rush, that edge pounding at his doors in a total onslaught at the thought. He scrounges up enough focus through the fog of pleasure to keep his impending orgasm at bay, desperate for it not to end. He’s impressed with himself, that one was bloody close.
It’s too soon. Trust him, he wants it. He wants that burst of white light and the mind numbing shocks and the rhythmic clenching.
But he’s greedy, so fucking greedy for more—more of Johnny.
He heaves over Soap, shaking arms propping himself up. Once the searing heat in his core has subsided and his heartbeat has steadied, he laughs, his bright emotions a dancing flame.
Ghost rests a hand on his bulging stomach, the crease around his eyes stark from his smirk. “All this cum ‘n ya still can’t knock me up. Such a disappointment, innit Johnny.” He grinds forwards, just once, and watches as a spurt of cum sputters past his hole and pools in the creases of Soap’s shirt. “Reckon we hafta keep going,” he murmurs, his hand swiping through the cum. He hikes Soap’s shirt up with a thumb, then kneads the cum into his skin. Little globs of it catch in his body hair, the strands clumping together, making them even darker, even thicker.
His back arches at the sight, Soap’s soft cock nudging up against his prostate with the movement. Even flagged, its girth is unbelievable.
“Come now, Johnny,” Ghost snarks. “M’not done wiv ya yet.”
“Yes, yes Si… oh god! Please, Ah ken I can getcha pregnant, just k-keep going, sweetheart. Fuck me, please—Ah w-want it.”
“Gaggin’ for more, luv?”
“ Always… Always Simon. Make me stupid—” he cuts himself off with a mewl, hips sloppily bucking upwards, his cock hardening once again.
Ghost renews his efforts, muscled thighs straining under the effort.
He gets lost in it this time—the rise and fall, being pulled to the very crest but never crashing over it.
When he comes back to himself, it might have been just minutes, maybe even hours. It honestly could have been days, eternities.
But it doesn’t matter.
There’s not a single place he’d rather be than with Soap, the both of them connected in the most intimate of ways.
The lube has long since lost its tingle—fucked the hot hell out of it they did—but, honestly, Soap makes him feel that good with just his skin against his. Soap’s all he needs, truly, to get that burning cold, icy hot, fire and snow feeling shredding up his spine.
He’s so lost in it, now, thrusts chaotic, his thighs a quivering mess, barely strong enough to lift himself off Soap’s cock. So he might just be bouncing, his arse not even lifting off of Soap’s thighs. And Soap, who Ghost is pretty sure had passed out from the torrent of overstimulation, is nothing but a burning pile of dead weight beneath him.
But he’s lost, nonetheless. So much so that he doesn’t hear the shift of the sheets or the click of the cap. He doesn’t even realise Soap is moving once again below him. He’s just chasing that edge, again and again and again.
He’s addicted. One hundred per cent, addicted.
So when a calloused hand, dripping with molten ice, grasps Ghost’s cock—throbbing hard, tip ruddy, and slick with its endless weeping—that edge finally snaps.
It’s a searing landslide.
A glacier carving through the snowy mountains.
An act of arson, nothing left but ash.
A deluge of liquid nitrogen.
It’s Soap, Soap, Soap—
And mine, mine, mine.
All he sees is a snowy tundra, the sun reflecting off the fluffy powder blinding.
He might hear a throaty chuckle. He might feel the gooey mess of Ghost’s cum between them.
“Good fockin’ boy, Simon.”
“Bet it feels so fockin’ good.”
“Clenchin’ so tight fer me… hmmm, gonna cum again.”
Ghost murmurs what he hopes is a condescending, “Johnny,” but is most likely just a ruined gasp.
“Dinnae stop now, m’eudail. Just gittin’ started.”
“P-proud words coming from… from a prat who just… passed out.” It comes out in puffs. If he could just catch his breath, or maybe see past the cloudy mist draped over his mind, he’d be able to scrounge up enough will to make it sound like anything but the overstimulated mess it is.
As he is now, all he can do is whine when Soap grabs Ghost’s hips and grinds him down on his cock. He’s jostled by the movement, and his boneless body slumps over, his head landing in the juncture of Soap’s neck.
“Better than ever,” Soap purrs. “Feel all hot and heavy, wakin’ up to ye still ridin’ the bleeding hell out of me.”
The Scot props his feet up on the bed, tilting Ghost forwards, and switches to deep, leisure pumps of his hips so each one messages his abused prostate. One hand comes up to card ever so softly through the hair at Ghost’s nape.
The stimulation should be too much, but all his tired body can feel is a buzzing pleasure, each thrust stoking that little spark. Not to set it off in a roaring bonfire, but just to keep it alive and steady.
It’s that intense sort of love that cards itself through your ribcage. Where you’re bundled in soft jackets as honeyed snowflakes kiss your cheeks. That’s got you sighing into a warm bath, bubbles tickling at your skin.
He thinks his eyes might have closed.
“That’s it, dear. Ah’ve gotcha. Take a lil’ kip.” His words are so sweet and lulling.
Ghost’s body grows so heavy, that hazy pleasure weighing him down even more into Soap’s body.
“Ah’ll make sure ye feel so good in your dreams,” Soap sings.
Ghost can’t help but slip into a heavy black as Soap’s body rocks along his.
He thinks he woke up intermittently throughout the night, blinking his eyes open to find either Soap fucking him hard and fast or Soap passed out once again. Either way, he ruts his hip back onto Soap’s cock, greedier than ever.
The cycle continues until the first dredges of sunlight peak through the window.
Ghost blinks awake sluggishly, mind a hazy mess and body a used, wringed out towel.
Nosing into a blistering warmth, he inhales a deep breath and almost fucking gags.
“Get off. You smell fuckin’ mingin’ and you’re still in your bloody kit,” Ghost complains, pushing at Soap’s shoulder, who at some point fell asleep on top of Ghost. He’s nothing but a weighted blanket—minus the cock that’s still plugging Ghost up.
Soap just gives a sleepy, little sigh and pushes even more of his weight onto Ghost, his cock nudging ever farther into Ghost. An aroused hitch regretfully squeezes at his lungs.
“Gotta brush my teeth, Johnny,” He says, ignoring his traitorous cock and finally getting the leverage to push Soap up and off to the side. His hard cock—fucking animal—slips out of him, a gush of liquids immediately trailing down the insides of Ghost’s legs. And, oh, god… he wants to plug himself up again, keep his stomach swollen with it.
Fuck.
One foot at a time, he stands on weak legs, then makes his way to the washroom. His body aches something fierce, worn muscles throbbing with each step. But there’s just something about it that leaves him wholly satisfied.
“Please do, sir,” Soap says from the bed, smirk curdling his words into pure snark. He lounges back, a hand landing on his cock and giving a lazy tug.
Ghost can’t hide the way his spine flickers with a shudder.
He feels that ravenous stare once again, a tangible weight against his naked body.
Bloody, fucking hell. Deja vu.
“Insatiable, Sergeant.”
“Good thing, else Ah wouldnae be able to keep up with ya, L.t.”
Ghost gives a slow blink, then, “Shower’s got room for two.”
He’s never seen Soap move so fast.
