Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ghost’s preoccupied with cataloging the mission report in his head, only then noticing that the cabin has gone unnervingly quiet, void of Soap’s usually boisterous mouth. 

He figured the loud rattle of the broken passenger door would be enough to keep Soap lucid,  shoving Soap’s shoulder until he mutters out some shite about a fuse.

Bastard might’ve lost more blood than he thought.

They’re en route to the safe house coordinate Ghost stashed, and have long been out of range of any tails, far from the city limits. 

They got the intel they came there for, and the last transmission from Price indicated that the mission was a success–no less of a shit show, though. He found Soap alive but half-responsive after searching for what felt like hours, hauling him quickly into the truck.

Ghost’s calls of Soap’s real name are met with silence this time, and that won’t do.

He slips the truck into the brush off the side of the road, wedged between trees that are heavy with vines, the overgrowth shielding the vehicle from the road.

Ghost hops out of the truck, welcoming the heavy scent of wet decay of the forest, a different kind of rot than warfare. Near silent, other than the crackling of the settling engine.

He wrenches the passenger side open, maneuvering Soap out of the cabin. He doesn’t go easy, putting all his weight on Ghost until he leans him up against the car door to get a proper look at him.

Soap curls in on himself, half of his ashen face shrouded in shadow and he manhandles his jaw to expose it to the light of the moon.

The skin around his left eye is red and angry, so swollen shut that it has to be painful. He’d met with the other end of a pistol from the looks of it, the clipped edge of the bruise already blooming into a deep purple.

Anger twists his features, singing sharp in caustic in his veins—like it always does when he finds Soap with his blood outside his body that he hadn’t been around to prevent. He should be used to it by now. He does the rounds, shining a flashlight in his eyes, noting his weak pulse. 

Maybe getting a bit more rough than needed when he scours over Soap’s body for any hidden injuries, finding none. It’s probably some level of mild shock.

Ghost weighs the limited options, concluding that bleeding the wound would ensure nothing happens to Soap’s vision, with a stim shot to boot.

He’s no medic, but it’ll do the job before this becomes some kinda contact Price as soon as possible event.

Ghost unsheathes the knife holstered to his thigh, a custom one he commissioned a few years after joining the force. A polished elk antler makes up the hilt, the curve of the Damascus steel blade catching the moonlight. It returns to its fitted, mahogany box post mission, never used on the field—no enemy worthy of this blade.

Soap’s either too out of it to make a quip or words escape him, good eye squinting at the sight of the blade flickering under the moon as Ghost turns it over in his hands. His glassy stare loosely holds to the sockets of Ghost’s mask, lidded and familiar. Not too out of it to know it’s Ghost, or so he can assume.

It’s a new sight for Ghost. 

A display of blind trust in his intentions with a knife in hand, rather than the typical shrill screech of terror, and that gives him pause.

Even now, with his pallid, sweat-damp skin and worrisome silence, it somehow still feels like Soap can see through the mask, perceive every minute change on Ghost’s face. And as much as Ghost can’t bear the sensation of being seen, the idea of Soap not seeing him clearly is somehow an even more unpleasant thought.

He pauses at the sight of his filthy gloves, coated with layers of gun oil and grime and other people’s blood, they’re a part of him as much as the mask is. 

Tools that maintain his own distance and to ensure others maintain theirs. The only time he’s willing to be in close quarters with another is when they’re taking their last breath at the other end of his weapon, but he pulls them off, for Soap’s sake.

His skin is shockingly warm when his hand returns to his jaw, that’s something new, too.

Ghost steadies his breath, this is to help Soap. 

They can’t go a mission without completing each other’s thoughts before they’re even uttered aloud. Ghost could send him in blindfolded, guided only by his voice over comms, and he’d surely move to oblige, trusting him completely.

And it’s why Price continues to pair them up, each mission another confirmation of Soap’s steadfast obedience. Further leading him into temptation.

Not to mention the only-on-the-field flirting that’s long trotted past the point of being inappropriate, that he should definitely fucking do something about instead of readjusting his cargoes—taking where Soap gives, so readily. 

His best excuse is that it’s healthy to test his impulse control. Something that’d been long dormant, until John fucking MacTavish.

It’s been months now by his side, the walls of the dark room he’s been staggering around in for years finally grew some cracks, and the bright sliver of light they feed in is only that more disorienting. It wrenches a foreign level of desperation from him that’s reserved only for Soap, calling him to reach out and selfishly stuff the best bits of him into the empty parts of himself.

It conjures up things he can’t even begin to let himself want—not for him, not for men like them.

That conviction loosens its grip every time he turns to seek him out, finding Soap’s eyes already on him.

It isn't the first time he’d thought about getting Soap on the other end of this knife. And this isn’t exactly the scenario he’s been lulling himself to sleep with every odd night for weeks on end, but it’ll have to do.

Ghost crowds Soap into the truck and digs his fingers in to ensure that he doesn’t buck from the pain, and he passes the blade beneath his eye in a horizontal gash. Blood spatters over his high cheekbone and Ghost has to stop himself from smearing it into his skin, mouth filling with saliva.

The relief that washes over him when Soap’s face scrunches in reaction to the pain feels foreign, a different kind of ending than he’s used to.

Soap gasps and his mouth hangs open with a ragged breath, but he’s otherwise still in Ghost’s hold. A slog of droplets escape the split skin to run down his cheek, glistening in the moonlight.

Pooling at the corner of his mouth.

Ghost briefly considers the urge that calls him to sink the blade in a second time. Flay Soap open and get a good look at what makes this fucker tick, find what it is in him that’s so damn magnetizing.

He just needs to find the stim shot in his vest and then they can be on their way.

It isn’t nearly the first time Ghost’s seen Soap’s blood outside of his body, but it’s the first time that it was at his hands. It’s a bit sick almost, how undeniably gorgeous Soap is even here. Disheveled and still wearing the impudent pout on his slackened lips in his guileless, semi-conscious state.

The urge to take up the mask to get a proper smell of Soap’s blood rears its ugly head. It’s only them here, alone in the woods and Soap owes him that, for saving his vision.

It’s entirely harmless, even.

Before his thoughts can intervene with a thousand rationalized reasons why this is a bad idea, Ghost steps into Soap’s space and does just that.

Saliva floods his mouth as it drops open to take in heaving breaths of the metallic, intoxicating scent of Soap’s blood. He bows forward as if magnetized to Soap’s body heat, exhaling a sharp breath when he becomes suddenly very fucking aware of the way his stiff prick is sticking to his thigh.

He’s so close now, it would take nothing at all to close the distance and get the taste on his tongue, get his cock out and get his blood there—

Ghost winds that part of himself taut when Soap’s lashes flutter, hands flying to his vest to search for the stim shot.

He uncaps it, brusquely stabbing it into the side of Soap’s deltoid and readies himself to wave off Soap’s protests about how they get him “all worked up”.

Ghost‘s managed to make himself scarce the last few times Soap needed one, the distance doing little to rid the distracting fucking image of Soap wanking himself raw about it.

Soap grunts at the puncture, doubling over to bear his weight on his thigh, “Ghost?” he blinks rapidly up at Ghost like he can’t quite see him yet, taking in heavy breaths as he gets a hold of himself.

“Johnny. You solid?” he thumps a closed fist to Soap’s shoulder to ground him. 

Soap coughs up a laugh, joints cracking where he stretches them out. He takes in their surroundings, shoulders slumping when he sees that the truck is empty.

There’s a little more color in his complexion now and the tightness in Ghost’s chest loosens its hold.

Soap’s expression shifts into something indiscernible when he levels his gaze again, “Woulda worn my best kilt if I knew it was my turn to get saved by the reaper,” Soap smirks, hands gesturing vaguely to his face.

Ghost almost regrets knocking consciousness back into him.

“Don’t count your blessings.” Ghost obliges, anyway, like always. He levels the blade with Soap’s throat and again he doesn’t falter. He can’t chalk it up to the lack of lucidity, now.

“Away with ye,” Soap holds his palms up in a show of mock defeat. His impish grin only widens at the sight of the knife, wet with his blood, “You know I have a thing for the mask.”

Ghost waits for the laugh that always follows Soap’s inappropriate banter, the punchline that reminds him that it’s just that. Banter.

It doesn’t come, and there’s just Soap’s wide eyes on his, his words hanging in the air like a confession.

A provocation of violence, if it were anyone else.

Ghost lets the silence stretch on and huffs out a breath at the absurdity. It’s the stim that’s got Soap talking like this.

It isn’t the first time a soldier’s attempted to add The Ghost to their conquest list, each attempt has been met with some variation of a humiliation ritual in the form of “training”, at the very least. And that makes him all that more reluctant to admit that it does sound a bit sweeter from Soap’s mouth. 

The bile stinging his throat is a crippling reminder; good things like Johnny are not for men like him.

Ghost’s blood still runs cold when Soap fumbles at his waist in the dark, getting a hand around his belt to tug him closer. A clumsy but firm pull and yeah, he’s fuckin’ bold. There’s lines here, countless that they’ve crossed already, but nothing like what they’re barreling toward now.

Ghost doesn’t budge. 

Doesn’t do a thing to get Soap’s hands off him, either. 

“C’mon.” Soap’s eyes are glued to the crotch of Ghost’s cargoes, his Scottish brogue lowering into something suggestive, “We can fix each other’s problems.”

“You’re my problem” Ghost retorts, and Soap’s fingers yank him closer.

The sight of Soap defenseless and doubled over in pain on the field sent something sharp into the sore inside him that aches every time Soap enters his line of sight. It’s festering now, threatening to rot him from the inside out. 

The pained noises that Soap whimpered into Ghost’s shoulder when he hauled him up were blood in the water—conjuring up countless scenarios in which Ghost could coax such sweet sounds out of Soap for himself, again and again.

Soap had looked to Ghost for stability and that made him want to bite until he bleeds and the idea that he should be feeling some level of guilt about abusing his rank only makes Ghost’s cock press more insistently into his zipper.

Whether it's the stim shot or blood loss or possible concussion that’s got Soap suddenly interested, he’s curious enough to scratch this itch.

Ghost seizes Soap’s jaw in his hand, nostrils flaring at the sight of Soap’s blood smearing across his skin when he leans into the attention.

His thumb catches on the swell of his lips and they part in invitation, Soap’s tongue darting out to lap his own blood from Ghost’s fingers. 

Ghost’s thumb follows the lick of warmth, past Soap’s lips and into the oppressive heat of his mouth. The sharp tips of his canines give at his touch, coaxing him deeper.

The touch buries him, the heat of Soap’s skin sending his thoughts to a fever pitch. It distorts his need and aversion until they’re impossible to distinguish, leaving just the call to devour.

The words are knocked loose, voice hoarse and rushed, “I’d eat you alive.”

“Do it.” Soap spits out like he’s been starving to hear it, all teeth where his lips are pulled back in more of a grimace than smile. His tongue flicks out to dip into the blood at the corner of his mouth, spreading it across his lips.

Ghost feels his face get mean at how easy Soap is. It’s always so fucking easy for Soap. Diving in without giving a fuck, consequences be damned. 

He’s never seen the stubborn sod refuse a challenge, but this wouldn’t be anything like a fuckin’ training exercise, a bullet through a target’s skull. 

Not for Ghost. 

Not if it’s Johnny.

“Dangerous game to play, Johnny…” Ghost threatens, grip turning iron before he catches himself. 

“This where we draw the line and start worrying about danger?” Soap jeers, breath heaving out of him, and Ghost is seized by the indecision to wipe the furrow off his brow or make it set in deeper. 

The truth of the matter is that neither of them can afford what comes with Ghost’s ownership.

Soap’s unguarded expression stabs through him, his thoughts always clear on his features and it makes Ghost furious. Furious that he can recognize every minute change in his temper with just a look.

That when he walks into a room he can see the way his features light up, and resenting himself for putting stock into it.

It’s a fucking liability.

He drops his hand and says nothing.

Soap’s brows draw up until he opens his mouth on a sneer, “Fucking coward.”

Ghost yanks his head back by his mohawk and the harsh noise from Soap’s throat gives him some semblance of power back, hands frozen in the air like he knows that settling them anywhere on Ghost would be a mistake. 

Rage settles behind his teeth that Soap would disrespect him enough to bait him into a cheap, adrenaline fueled fuck.

“You got a fuckin’ attitude problem, MacTavish,” Ghost growls, slamming him into the truck door. Soap’s eyes are glued to his exposed mouth like some drunkard stumbling upon an oasis in the desert, fueling his fury further. 

Even his fucking mohawk is a perfect fit in his fist.

“Your mouth—” Soap starts, cut off with a grunt by Ghost’s forearm pressing meanly into his windpipe. Doesn’t wanna hear some shit about how he looks, the lifted mask just another layer of regret.

Soap coughs, ducking away from his hold to choke out, “Get your mouth on me,” coming out softly enough to sound like a plea.

Soap tilts his head back to bare more of his throat, peering up at Ghost through his lashes with such a cocksure grin that it makes him question exactly how out of it Soap was before the stim shot. 

Always the picture perfect, intrepid little soldier, chasing after his deathwish. Ghost scoffs. 

Yeah, he could work with that. 

He’s mildly livid at how little it took, but any concern of being a good man that makes good choices was something he signed away the day he joined the military. 

Ghost’ll fill whatever emptiness Soap’s got going on and sustain himself on the scraps of a meaningless fuck until it wears off, and he can crawl back to his miserable perch to, again, watch Soap from a safe distance.

Putting in papers for a transfer would be the cleanest exit.

The hold on Soap has to be painful, but he just blinks guilelessly up at him. Suddenly placid when there’s a possibility that he might get what he wants when Ghost doesn’t knock him out cold.

In for a penny.

The crushing grip on Soap’s windpipe doesn’t relent as he slots himself into his space, filthy steel toe boots knocking into Soap’s own. He crowds him into the truck door, skin igniting under his layers where he’s pressed into the hard line of Soap’s strong body.

Ghost takes the sight of him in and he realizes he’s never gotten this close, close enough to see the sliver of cerulean blue that’s reduced to a thin ring around his fat pupil. Close enough to catch the start of a blush blooming on Soap’s high cheekbones in response to Ghost’s proximity. 

Close enough to clock the slight shudder of his shoulders on a shaky exhale, and Ghost knows he never stood a chance.

Not really.

The air between them is still with held breaths as Ghost ducks down.

His tongue and lips gorge themselves on the drying trail of his blood, and he has to throttle the moan that threatens to tear out of him at the taste.

Ghost can’t remember the last time any kind of indulgence as felt as bloody good as this, each lap of his tongue unwinding his tightly wound restraint that he’s been in a losing battle with ever since he got his fucking sights on Soap. 

It will be only this on his mind in quiet moments to himself—the way Soap’s mouth drops open on a gasp for him when he flattens his tongue, lapping up the curve of his jaw.

He’s plucked from his frenzy when Soap’s hand tugs at his wrist and he stiffens, grunting into Soap’s cheek at the threat being deprived now that he’s got a taste. 

Ghost relents to the grip when Soap presses his cheek into his mouth in a show of deference. His curiosity for Soap triumphs over seemingly every aspect of his decades built self preservation.

A glint of silver catches the corner of Ghost’s eye, drawing him back.

Moonlight glimmers across the blade of the knife as Soap moves Ghost’s wrist toward his mouth and dips his head forward.

Soap’s expression morphs into something depraved as he runs his tongue along the blade, collecting his own blood on his tongue.

Ghost’s teeth clack shut, tongue sticky with Soap’s blood. The sight is sin incarnate, his own blood laid out on his sharp tongue with a curve of a grin on his lips in obscene submission, an offering for Ghost.

“Fuck,” Ghost breathes—any thought of value vacates his mind, solely possessed by the need to follow Soap down, drink up every last drop of his blood. Every cell in his body screams to worship, and he has no choice but to deliver himself.

Ghost closes the distance and flattens his tongue to Soap’s, something gentle at the first touch. Turning vicious after he swallows, returning to consume every last drop of Soap’s blood, chasing its sweet metallic bliss.

Ghost’s hand instinctively holds his chin fast when Soap begins to twitch into the contact, to allow him to feed. He suckles Soap’s tongue into his mouth to divest the taste from him completely, senses shackled by the dark flutter of his lashes on his reddened cheeks.

The grip turns brutish when strangled little vocalizations sound from Soap’s throat, unable to stifle the noises even if he wanted to with Ghost’s fingers holding him open.

The warmth of his skin is blistering and his grip slips where Soap’s skin is slicked by the saliva that drools freely from his open mouth. Ghost’s tongue chases it, noisily lapping at the rivulets of spit shining on his chin for remnants of his blood, there, too.

It’s a foreign kind of torture, prying himself away from Soap before he manages to do something even more reckless.

The notion is obliterated by the hushed please from Soap’s mouth, agonized and desperate in a way that Ghost didn’t know he was capable of, he’s helpless to heed the call.

Soap’s chapped lips are rough as they part for Ghost in an open mouthed kiss, his tongue plundering Soap’s mouth so thoroughly that the eager press of his body is turned pliant as he flattens himself to the car, gasping at the sharp drag of Ghost’s teeth over his bloodstained tongue.

Even here Soap makes his demands known, body writhing and arching into every touch—so fully crowded beneath his frame that Soap would be completely obscured from sight if someone were to happen upon them.

Ghost’s resolve fractures further at the sweet little moan Soap grants him when he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. Soap’s chin tilts so eagerly into Ghost’s hands that he can’t help the way his teeth sink in mean, biting, until he’s unsure whose blood he’s swallowing down. 

The soft sigh that falls from Soap’s lips sounds like relief, deliverance in the form of Ghost’s canines in his flesh. He relents to the warmth of Soap’s clutching hands with a growl into his mouth, the mixture of their saliva and blood wet between their fervid cheeks. 

It’s grotesque to even begin to think about the way Soap’s touch unmoors him, tangling with every hard-ingrained inclination to keep others at a few feets distance.

The startled, full throated moan it earns him when he curls bare fingers around the base of Soap’s throat goes straight to his throbbing cock. 

Soap parts enough to begin to say something and Ghost slams him into the truck by his vest, yanking him up to kiss him again, harder. There’s a rough noise in his throat, the bitten off desires to own Soap, imprint his skin with the marks of his teeth.

Break him for anyone else.

It’s everything about Soap that reduces Ghost to the very base of his violent instincts, the one thing that his control is threatened by. The rough treatment jostles Soap in his hold and his thigh comes up to slot between Soap’s, pinning him still.

Soap’s reaction is so immediate that it’s as if it’s on instinct, a thrilled moan loud in his throat as his hips jerk forward into the contact.

Sweat pools on Ghost’s fever hot skin, every nerve in his body gone ridgid at the sight of Soap’s eagerly grinding hips. He kisses the gasp from Soap’s mouth when he rolls his hips over his broad thigh, flexing his muscles taut for Soap to use.

There’s no space between their bodies, all the more maddening when Soap closes in, shamelessly grinding himself against Ghost’s hard cock.

He crushes Soap’s hand that wanders clumsily between their bodies, searching for Ghost’s fly. Soap seizes up, brows knitting like he’s readying himself to argue, until Ghost grabs his cock hard over his jeans. 

He slumps forward, bucking into the pain.

An amused huff falls from Ghost’s mouth at the change in demeanor, the pitiful arousal on Soap’s face, exactly what he was hoping for.

Soap’s biting his lip like he’s trying to keep himself quiet, and that won’t work.

Ghost pops Soap’s fly open and unzips him, just for the fat curve of his cock to reveal itself from where it was confined to his hip.

He’s fucking commando. Ghost despairs, agonizing with the desire to drop to his knees and clean every inch of his skin with his tongue, spend hours languishing in the musk of his full bush.

From what he can see in the moonlight his cock is what Ghost was expecting as he pulls his fly open, pretty like he is. Veined and substantial, the perfect size to fit into his hands.

And it does fit perfectly—the first touch pulls a devastating, choked off moan from Soap. 

The sound makes Ghost’s fingers twitch with the need to open his skin up and tear his larynx right out, to ensure that no one else will know this pleasure.

A pearlescent drop of precome beads at the tip when Ghost gives it a mean squeeze and he smears it down the length of him, rewarding him with the wet slide of his foreskin. 

Ghost doesn’t deprive Soap’s clutching hands long, the clack of his own belt being wrestled open is loud in the quiet night.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap wheezes out when Ghost takes them both in his fist and spreads Soap’s precome over himself, easing the glide.

Marking himself. 

The pleasure is almost enough to ward off the unease gnawing at the corners of his mind, the countless ways in which he’s royally fucked.

A certain sense of victory sings through Ghost when Soap’s slumps into him, shuddering out a sigh when he thumbs over his leaking cockslit.

“Gettin’ weak on me, soldier?” Ghost asks, covering the hand that claws at his shoulder with his own, encouraging him to dig his fingers in enough that maybe it’ll be tempting enough to stay. Soap’s breath fans hot over the column of his neck, “Never better, sir.”

The use of the honorific, here, does something to him, his breathing turning loud and ragged to his own ears.

“Knew you’d be big. Fuck,” Soap sputters out like it pained him to keep it to himself.

As much as the words bloat his ego, they wash over Ghost like ice—It’s an inadvertent admission that Soap has thought about it, about Ghost, like this.

He buries the questions that bubble up to the forefront of his mind in favor of guiding Soap’s hand to his cock, to feel just how big he is. That quiets Soap then, the white of his eyes showing at the sight of Ghost’s ruddy head disappearing into the wet clutch of his fist as Ghost moves it for him.

“Bigger than you,” Ghost gloats, and the guttural moan that tears from Soap’s chest makes him cock an eyebrow.

He bucks his hips up, flattening Soap to the car with his weight and obscures Soap’s cock beneath his girth, his cockslit just reaching the bottom of his head. Soap’s reaction is immediate, bucking wildly into the touch, brows knit and red in the face—and fucking hell Ghost knew that desperation would look this good on Soap.

He’s going to find out what else gets him like this.

“Like that, Soap? When I get my hands on you,” he kneads his fingers into Soap’s sides, encouraging each lurch of his hips into their interlaced fingers. “Make you feel small?” Ghost’s lips curl into snarl at the answering yeah, yeah, yeahs, voice pitching in a new way that makes Ghost’s vision turn blurry with how fucking hard it makes him.

Greed isn’t a foreign vice to Ghost, but it’s brought to a new level here, vicious with the overwhelming desire to wring Soap’s pleasure from him until his voice is lost from begging Ghost to stop.

All the blood left in his brain goes straight to his cock when his fingers meet behind Soap’s back, a grip cruel enough to hurt, surely.

It’s disappointing to know that Soap is practically built to serve his every depraved whim with enthusiasm, as inextricably out of reach he is.

It still isn’t enough to stop the words from coming out and he continues, digging a grave for two. “Wanna get handled rough, Johnny? Like when it hurts?” Ghost feels like something’s knocked loose, fraying his sanity further with every new sound Soap makes.

“Fuck, yes. Please, sir.” Soap begs into Ghost’s clavicle, so shameless in his want that he almost gives into the urge to get Soap on all fours right here and take him raw and bleeding, into the forest floor.

Ghost noticed that Soap presses fingers to his own bruises during meetings. Such an unashamed provocation that Ghost could only assume that he was oblivious of it, something he does often. A familiar comfort for him.

At first, Ghost assumed that Soap diving head-first into perilous situations was pure arrogance, a blind pursuit to gain approval. 

When Soap would come back unscathed with a feral grin plastered on his face, he began to think differently, that it’s the danger he’s after. 

Admittedly, he did tail Soap more than once post demolition demos, on the off chance of catching him doing something with that pent up energy. It’s part of the responsibility, to know how his men tick. 

Soap is his sergeant after all.

So, yeah, he knew. But to have it confirmed is his death-knell, blood thrumming hot with the base desire to indulge this aspect of Soap, make it so good for him that he won’t want for anything else.

If there’s one thing he can do it's make Soap hurt, stuff himself under Soap’s skin and fester there like a parasite, take all that’s good and holy from him and leave a withered shell of who he once was.

The fragile, misty look in Soap’s good eye makes Ghost almost wish that he had gotten clocked in both eyes, gorgeous blue staring up at Ghost in a way that he certainly doesn’t deserve. He ducks forward, soothing the suffocating sensation in his chest with the sink of his teeth into Soap’s pulse point.

Ghost knows what happens when he owns things–the raised, ragged scars his fingers leave when driven by his wants. Glutting himself until all that’s good is wrung out.

It’s mutually assured destruction, the hand draped at the base of Soap’s throat their first step into ruination.

Ghost is steadfast in his belief that a functional tool of the military with its own desires is a broken one—but it only goes so far when Soap’s proximity threatens to snap that cap clean off.

And this feels a lot like ownership—the rich, coppery taste of Soap’s blood heavy on his tongue, easily offering it up to Ghost as if it isn’t the most valuable thing that a soldier is taught to keep. The words crawl up his throat, unbidden.

“Tell me—” Ghost starts, pulling back to press his forehead into Soap’s cheek, smearing the mask with streaks of his blood, surely. 

Hopefully.

Ghost can chalk this up to a moment of weakness later, a few fuckin’ months of weakness if he’s being honest. Really, since Soap had landed on that tarmac, unblinking and eager to impress.

“Tell me you need this,” and he’s woefully thankful that he stops himself there, keeps the quiet part to himself. Tell me you need this, too.

Soap barks out a laugh, “You thick?” accent so loaded with anger that it takes Ghost a moment to process the words, gawping stupidly at Soap’s hardened expression, “Aye, I fuckin’ need this. Needed this since the minute I saw you, daft cunt. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

A shudder ripples through Ghost, he jerks back as if flame touched. The truth of Soap’s words reflected in his expression is as clear as a summer’s day, and just as sweltering.

The rapid thumping of his heart is a weight on his chest, turning his breaths ragged, “I’ll own you—”

“I’d fuckin’ hope so,” Soap hisses petulantly through his teeth.

“Not fucking around, Johnny. It’s all or nothing. You’ll be mine. Only mine.” Ghost says, voice strained with intention, his white knuckled grip shaking with its force around the straps of Soap’s tact vest. 

The words aren’t enough, really not even close, to explain what it’ll mean for Soap. 

There will be no one else.

“That’s what I’ve been fucking tell you, Ghost! I want that… Would do anything for it,” the lost, hopeful look on his face betrays his sharp tongue, “Anything.”

Anything.

Whatever Soap sees on his face has him grinning, the wicked snarl of a pleased animal. One happy enough to show its soft belly, and Ghost’ll be happy too, with the opportunity to take full advantage of Soap’s trust in him.

Ghost yanks him up by his vest and Soap’s already coming up to meet him, gasping into his mouth, Soap’s cool fingers a reprieve on the heated skin of the back of his neck.

There’s no words that would suffice, to let Soap know that he’d relive every moment until now, that it was all worth it. If it always meant that Soap would wind up here in his arms—but he can show him.

Ghost presses his lips to the corner of Soap’s mouth, the tip of his tongue coming out to lick clean the blood pooled there. His tongue follows the trail of blood to the source, the perfectly horizontal gash that Ghost opened beneath Soap’s eye. 

His hands are clutching at him like he needs Ghost there, the quickening of Soap’s humid breath against his skin an accelerant.

It’s disarming—to be wanted so thoroughly by the sole object of his desire.

Ghost rewards him with a flattened tongue over the gash and Soap jerks up into his hands, struggling and failing to hold himself still. New, heavy droplets escape the wound and he sucks them down, slurping noisily. They both know the risks, self preservation falling to the wayside when Ghost’s tongue threatens to invade his flesh.

Soap has only ever moved toward Ghost’s violence, crowding his body beneath his shoulders to submit himself further.

Ghost forces the split skin open with his tongue and the heat of it tears a guttural groan of gratification from his throat, the sensation of being inside Soap. In just the first ways of many.

There’s a strangled moan from Soap’s throat when his tongue thrusts into the wound, like he’s gonna fuck him.

Ghost gropes crudely at the seam of his jeans, tugging Soap’s body onto his and his fingers dip lower, pressing into the fabric over his hole. Soap’s cock pulses in his fist as he comes with a strangled moan, the hot ropes of it dripping over Ghost’s knuckles, over his cock.

The sight of his pleasure drawn expression is Ghost’s salvation and undoing all in one, transfixed as he wrings the last drops of come from Soap’s shuddering body, forcing himself to stop before Soap’s overstimulated. 

Fear ruins the meat.

He laps up the remnants of new blood from the wound until Soap’s cheek is licked clean, now only smeared with a flush that reaches down to the neck of his shirt. 

He really needs to see how far down that goes.

Ghost brings his hand to his mouth to suck the musky, bitter taste of Soap’s come from the backs of his fingers, and Soap’s tongue is coming out to meet his immediately, feverishly suckling the taste of himself from any part of Ghost he can reach, and it would be rude to not indulge him.

He plunges his fingers into Soap’s mouth, and he has half a mind to shove Soap to his knees, get those skilled lips around his cock. Soap inhales heavily through his nose as he strains to maintain eye contact, pink tongue working over his fingers.

Ghost can’t help the way that makes him violent.

The thrust of his fingers turns harsh, forcing a gag out of Soap, but he doesn’t pull off.

Soap’s eyes water, crystalline blue beginning to shine with unspilled tears and Ghost rips his fingers away like he’s been burned.

He fears what he might do if Soap really starts crying now.

He stuffs himself back into his cargoes and the sticky mess of Soap’s come seeping into the fabric would be bothersome, if it didn’t make him uncomfortably fucking hard.

Ghost needs to get them the fuck out of here. 

He finds the knife and sheaths it, wrestling the liquid antiseptic in his vest too and surveys Soap’s skin, assessing the damage.

It’ll undoubtedly need stitches after he tore it wider with his tongue, and he rubs a thumb over the soft skin beneath Soap’s ear in apology. It’s a small price to pay, really, Soap will get some ointment and some stitches. And have some level of a permanent scar there. 

In the back of his mind he knows that if he had it his way, the wound would never heal, and if it has to, he’d ensure that it heals wrong. Raised and keloid. 

Evidence of his permanent, visible alteration by Ghost’s hands. 

Now, they’re going to leave for this safehouse as soon as fucking possible and Ghost is gonna find out where the line is really drawn.

“Hold still,” he lets the antiseptic nozzle drip over the wound and down Soap’s cheek. Soap hisses through his teeth at the burn, the sound morphing into something lewd as he smirks up at Ghost, “Shit. S’not bad.”

Ghost sighs, pushing back the hair that had fallen onto Soap’s forehead, “Get like this with all the medics?”

“Only the skull obsessed ones that are built like a brick shithouse,” Soap answers with a smile so gorgeous that it makes Ghost’s blood buzz with the need to turn him inside out.

“In the fuckin’ truck, Soap,” he says instead, herding him into the vehicle and following shortly after.

He starts the engine up and slings a hand over the back of Soap’s seat to back them out. Soap relaxes into his seat beside him, sighing and stretching out his limbs like a satisfied dog. 

Ghost hums, “Don’t start thinking I’m done with you yet.”

Chapter Text

The drive is silent, any notion of filling the air with idle chatter abandoned. 

Ghost grips the wheel hard enough to have his bones aching, actively ignoring the press of his half-hard cock against his jeans from Soap’s presence alone. Whatever’s waiting for them at the safehouse. 

It’ll take days for the data they secured to be cracked, plenty of time to find their way home. It’s a small reassurance that he was able to flick off Soap’s comms while he cleansed the wound.

He’s so keyed up himself that he doesn’t have it in him to tell Soap to quit bouncing his fucking leg like he usually does, all that nervous energy having him readjust in his chair every other minute. It’s not the time to find god, but he’s praying to something that this beater of a truck doesn’t croak before they get there.

Ghost turns off the lights on approach to the small building, halfway out of the truck before it comes to a full stop with a pistol cocked in hand, “Stay,” he says, turning to survey the perimeter, then inside.

It’s bare bones and tight. A table, a cot, a running sink. Enough to tide them overnight. If they’ll need it.

Soap’s breathing is loud in his ears when he wrenches him from the cabin, stumbling over himself as Ghost steers him to the door with a firm hand to his nape. He brackets Soap’s body in with his body weight, ducking to mouth at the sensitive skin beneath Soap’s jaw. The tremble that wracks through him when the hard edge of the mask catches on his skin teems under Ghost’s skin, fisting the collar of his shirt as he greedily inhales his scent.

“More,” Soap grits out, spreading his legs as he grinds his arse back into Ghost’s crotch, urging him to do the same.

Ghost smiles into the column of his neck, shoving Soap’s hips down, flat to the door, “Bossy.” Not for long. He sighs when Ghost’s lips press to the soft skin just beneath Soap’s ear and bites, leaving an unmistakable mark of his teeth in his flesh. He follows the indents of his teeth with a mean press of his thumb, just to see Soap’s wince of pleasure, “You’ll take what I give you.”

That has Soap’s body tensing against his with a gasp, the flush on his cheeks deepening, clearly affected by the words. Interesting.

Ghost gets the door open and crowds him into the main room of the safehouse and Soap’s hot gaze doesn’t leave his, seeking his attention. He doesn’t even pretend to take in the space, trusting that Ghost already ensured his safety. 

And fuck, if that doesn’t do something for him.

He clasps a hand loosely to the base of Soap’s throat, shamelessly staring now that he’s got him under the fluorescents of the safe house. 

Nowhere to hide.

The head of height between them only makes Soap’s lidded gaze burn hotter on his skin, peering up at him through his dark lashes.

Ghost’s fingers around Soap’s throat are heavy with the threat of ownership as his grip tightens, and Soap presses his body up into it eagerly.

“I’ll say it once,” Ghost raises a hand to cradle Soap’s cheek in his hand, making an active effort to keep his voice even, “I’m going to hurt you. And I’m not gonna be able to stop if I start. Not tonight. Not ever.”

The clear blue of Soap’s eyes are swallowed by the black of his pupils as a grin splits across his face, swaying forward into Ghost’s space as if magnetized, “Gonna make me scream, sir?” a laugh falls from his lips, unhinged at the promise of Ghost’s violence, “Want me to beg you to stop, make me take it ‘til I cry?”

“You want me to.” Ghost growls into his ear, rewarded with a shudder of Soap’s shoulders.

He can’t deny that a pretty picture like that has crossed his mind countless times—tracking Soap’s movements to drag him into the brush sans weapons and comms, just to find out. “But why would I do that when I’ve already caught you.”

The click of Soap’s tongue is the only warning Ghost gets before he’s moving. It is rather endearing that he wants to go down, but not without a fight.

Ghost shoves his forearm into Soap’s before his fist makes contact with his jaw, his teeth exposed in more of a snarl than a smile that says I want you to make me.

There’s power behind Soap’s movements, a real intent to hurt. Ghost only wants to stoke that fire hotter, see how high it can climb before he snuffs it out. 

Ghost’s being shoved back then, with Soap’s forearm on his chest. He’s slower to dodge the next fist that just glances the edge of his jaw, and he figures he might as well give Soap what he’s asking for.

To be put in his place. 

He catches the next throw and uses the momentum to twist Soap’s arm back until a pained grunt tears out of him, mouth open and panting with his exertion.

If his blood was running hot before it’s fucking boiling now, clothing clinging to his sweat slicked skin as he overpowers Soap.

Struggle all he wants, it’ll only delay the inevitable conclusion that Soap will be his, all the reckless fury in his body moulded by Ghost’s hands, to fit his any whim.

Ghost backs him into the edge of the table when he attempts to free himself, twisting Soap’s wrist until another sweet sound of agony sounds from him. 

They’re chest to chest now, close enough for Ghost to feel the heat of Soap’s panting breaths, his mouth contorting into a snarl as he jerks against Ghost’s hold. Ghost’s nails sink into the scrape on the back of Soap’s forearm and it earns him a hiss as he levels his gaze with his, finding the lidded, undeniable heat of arousal just as present as his fury.

Soap yanks his restrained limbs back, forcing Ghost into his space in order to maintain the hold.

He stills at the victory, and tilts his chin up. Soap’s smirk is replaced with the pout of his parted lips as his eyes move to where Ghost’s mouth is under the mask. All but asking for it.

It’s the heady, complete kinda deference that could surely go to a man’s head. And Ghost isn’t exempt, not when it’s Johnny.

Ghost dips into his space, chuckling at the flutter of Soap’s lashes when he doesn’t close the gap. His body squirms against the hold on his wrists in an effort to press his lips to Ghost’s, Soap’s shameless desperation emptying his patience. He shoves the mask up onto his nose and pulls Soap up to meet him, the wet press of their tongues turning immediately open-mouthed and filthy.

It chases the air from his lungs, swallowing the gasp from Soap’s lips when Ghost crushes his body to the edge of the table with the mean grind of his hips, the contact not nearly enough.

Ghost releases the hold to unbuckle Soap’s kit, separating enough to get it up and over his head. His shirt rides up his hip, exposing the taut muscle of his midriff and Ghost's splayed hand follows, licking the moan that falls from Soap’s mouth when the fingers on his waist turn cruel.

Soap’s thighs encircle his waist the moment he hoists him up onto the table, brows knitting as his freed hands come up to bring Ghost’s mouth back to his. He unsheathes the knife to rid him of his shirt and Soap grabs his wrist, like he’d done in the forest earlier. Just to feel, this time.

It’s a foreign sensation, Soap’s lips curled in a smile against his own.

He notches the tip beneath the hem of Soap’s shirt and pulls up, his dog tags clinking on his chest when he shivers from the exposure.

Soap pulls back with lips pursed in a pout, “I liked that one.” Ghost’s hand finds his throat and the pad of his thumb fits neatly into the divot between Soap’s clavicles, like he always imagined it would.

His strong body is littered with scars hidden amongst the dark of his hair that accentuate every dip and curve of his figure. He tweaks Soap’s pebbled nipple between his fingers, cock jumping in response to the lurid noise it earns him. Soap’s hands curl and uncurl at his sides like he wants to reach out and touch, body arching into the abuse.

As much as Ghost wants to savor this, see how far Soap can bend until he breaks, this new test of patience is on its way to being lost with each panting sigh from the man.

He peels Soap’s thighs from his waist and brings him to his feet again, manhandling Soap to face the table and speaking into the crook of his neck, “Bend over.”

Soap huffs out a laugh, “Thought you’d never ask—”

“I’m not asking,” Ghost says with the firm press of a palm to his shoulder. Some part of him is pleasantly surprised when Soap doesn’t resist the pressure, knowing his want for this is taking priority to his stubborn nature.

It’s all Soap’s known for months after all, it’s only natural for him to follow the guidance of Ghost’s strong hands, his voice in his ear. 

Leading him now to a different kind of peace of mind.

Ghost wrestles Soap’s belt open to shove his jeans down to his knees, and Soap almost trips over himself in his eagerness to toe off his boots and socks, to present his naked body to his superior.

Good little soldier.

The spread of Soap’s strong body is vulgar, presenting himself to Ghost similarly to the images he’s conjured up in his mind to wank himself raw to in his fits of weakness. He takes a fistful of Soap’s ample arse and delivers an open-hand slap, just to hear his yelp.

“Got lube in the front pocket of my vest,” Soap says with the jut of his chin to his discarded vest.

Ghost scowls. There’s a limited number of reasons that Soap would need it on the field, and none of them are particularly pleasing to think about.

“Never know when you’ll need it, eh sir?” Soap goads over his shoulder, lips tilted in a cocksure grin as he props himself up on his elbows. Ghost takes his elbows out from underneath him, sending him slamming flat to the table with a disgruntled noise, “Fucks sake.. Ya know, I was told that you don’t play well with others.”

“That’s right, I work alone,” he replies, resenting the part of himself that gloats at the thought of Soap questioning his fellow soldiers about him.

“And I don't share, either. They tell you that too?" The declaration has Soap’s head dropping, his hips shifting to encourage more of Ghost’s touch.

Ghost ignores the request for lube, instead sinking his fingers into Soap’s parted lips to silence whatever quip he was readying himself with. Soap’s tongue works over them with a low sound in his throat and he has to pull his fingers out to curb the urge to shove Soap to his knees. Give his pink cocksucker lips something real to work for.

He spreads his arsecheeks and Soap’s body reacts, hole tightening around nothing. Knowing he’s got Ghost’s eyes on him. Ghost can’t help the way that unhinges his grasp to rational thought, single-mindedly fueled by the need to watch every part of Soap take things. 

Ghost spreads him wider to get a real good look at the coarse, dark hair that lies in sweat-dampened curls over the clenching skin of his hole.

Ghost pushes the saliva slick tip of his thumb past Soap’s rim to the first knuckle. His insides are shockingly hot and constricting around him, urging him deeper. “You a bloody virgin, MacTavish?” he asks, an attempt to get a hold on his almost blinding arousal.

“Been a fuckin’ while,” Soap says on a rough exhale, temple shining with sweat, “But you know that, don’t you? Been breathing down my neck for the better part of fuckin’ a year. And you were still too much of an uptight cunt to make a move.”

The hiss it tears out of Soap when Ghost thrusts his finger into the hilt and twists is as satisfying as the knowledge that no one’s touched him here since they met, and that his reluctant presence on pub nights out contributed to that. Any pretense of subtlety about it be damned, now.

“Poor lad.” Ghost says, voice sickly sweet as he works him open, “Feelin’ deprived?”

“Aye. Thought of nabbing that knife of yours, but I decided to keep my skin.”

Ghost hums, “For what.”

“Only so many things to fuck yerself with on a military base,” and Ghost has to stifle the way his breath lurches at the confession.

It’s far the first time it’s come to mind, how Soap’s hole would stretch and catch on the ridges of the bone hilt, but to hear it from Soap’s mouth is a new kind of madness.

The backs of his knuckles collect the sweat dewing on his lower back as he thumbs at the dimples there. For such a lethal body, they’re startlingly cute—two perfectly identical indents that could only be made more gorgeous by being filled with droplets of his blood. Soap tosses his hips back, urging Ghost’s fingers deeper.

“Posture, soldier,” Ghost orders, voice dropping into the controlled tone he uses over comms. 

He forces Soap to rise to his elbows with a firm hand on his jaw, the gooseflesh prickling on the back of Soap’s biceps mirroring his own. Ghost admires the steep curve of his spine, the toned, hard earned muscles of a soldier in peak condition. The urge to sink himself into Soap and defile all that gorgeous skin is sharpening, every nerve in his body alight with the sensation of circling in on prey that knows it’s already lost.

Ghost takes a steadying breath and picks up the knife, gently stroking the back of Soap’s neck in wordless appraisal.

“You’re gonna be very still for me,” he brings the blunt edge of the blade to Soap’s back and the cool metal sends a shiver through his frame. 

His posture doesn’t falter.

It’s different from the semi-conscious acquiescence that Soap had shown in the woods—bloodshed with a new purpose, presenting himself to Ghost’s knife out of his own volition. A show of certain, blind faith to whatever it is that Ghost deems him fit to be given.

The plain truth of his expectant, clear eyed stare that met Ghost’s proclamation of his intention to hurt him.

No ulterior motive, no bruise that needs bleeding, the exception being the festering wound of Ghost’s consuming desire.

He wonders what Soap’s blood will look like drawn by his own hands, if it’ll look different. 

Look like his.  

Ghost flips the knife over, feather light touch of the blade kissing the dip of his dimple, “Bleed for me,”

Soap’s exclamation of pleasure is obscene as his hips hitch up to drive the knife deeper as red envelops the tip, his nape smeared with the blotches of his blush.

Years of service can cross any upstanding man’s wires, but it’s still startling to see his own faults echoed in Soap, lying in sweet repose for Ghost to exhume.

Ghost breaks the perfect, shining pearl of Soap’s blood with his finger, world narrowing down to the sight of it on his skin. Unfeeling of the shooting pain to his joints as he falls to his knees.

He flattens his thumb to the tacky skin of Soap’s hole, the wet mess of his blood clinging to where their skin joins as he presses in, past the tight furl of his hole—the vulgar noise of his hole sucking Ghost in, defiling his insides with his own blood.

The heat of Ghost’s ragged breaths against his most intimate area pulls another broken sound from Soap that has Ghost surging forward, flattening his tongue to where his fingers are fucking Soap open to lap greedily at the red sheen of his blood.

“Ghost,” Soap cries, sounding scandalized as he clambers for the edge of the table to hold onto, “God, the fuck, you—” the next words die on his tongue when Ghost crooks his finger upward with steady strokes, bullying his prostate.

“Filthy fuckin’ bastard,” is all Soap can muster, voice so choked that it seems like he’s crying. 

It is filthy, the potent taste of his sweat and musk from the rigor of their mission driving Ghost a degree madder, pulling a throaty groan from his chest. He unlatches the excess bulk from his vest, letting it drop forgotten to the floor as he gorges himself, kissing and biting on the soft skin of his rim like he would his mouth.

Soap’s hole constricts around his tongue and it sends Ghost’s hips jerking forward into the air, cock aching to be sunk inside , enveloped in Soap’s heat.

Ghost fumbles his belt and fly open, the clack of metal sending Soap’s hips eagerly back onto his tongue, knowing that Ghost needs this, too. He frees his cock, the slick of his precome adding to the mess as his finger joins his tongue in Soap’s hole, fucking his precome into him until his jaw aches and air is absent from his lungs—lightheaded with his need.

He shifts down to nip at the salty skin of Soap’s perineum, ducking down too suckle the salty musk of his precome from his cockslit until Soap’s breath quickens, and Ghost pulls back.

His nostrils flare at the sight of Soap’s spit and blood slicked hole, ignoring the impatient bucks of his hips attempting to lure his mouth back on him—but Ghost isn’t so cruel as to leave him empty.

Soap wants to fuck his knife, he’ll fuck his knife.

He locates Soap’s tac vest, rummaging through the velcro pockets until he finds a small, cylindrical bottle of what he can presume to be the lubricant Soap touted about. Classy.

Ghost clasps the blade and properly coats the bone and brass with a layer of lubricant. He replaces the warm pad of his thumb pressed to Soap’s hole with the cold, slicked blade of the hilt, the confused cry from Soap’s mouth only spurring the handle deeper.

Soap’s spine stiffens, pushing himself up off the table—and Ghost is already bowing forward to splay a hand to his nape, his grasp heavy with the repercussions if he doesn’t comply. 

A thrill scrawls up his spine when Soap visibly relaxes at the touch, grounded by Ghost’s subjugation. The rush of full-bodied satisfaction at the sight of Soap taking one of Ghost's most valued objects up his arse like he was meant for it satiates something base in him, voice rough with arousal, “Just giving you what you asked for, Sergeant.”

It takes a moment for Soap’s mind to catch up, head dropping as he mumbles out a slew of curses. Soap’s hips hitch wildly into the hilt being fed into his hole, his rim catching then giving on the gnarled notches and grooves of the bone hilt. Just as Ghost imagined it would.

“A few centimeters more and that blade is inside you,” and the motions of Soap’s hips only become more frenzied, mindlessly disregarding his polite warning in pursuit of fucking himself full. Ghost forces Soap’s hips flush to the table with a hand on his lower back, Soap’s low moan drowned out by the slick sound of the hilt violating his insides, “Only thing this pretty hole is getting split on is my cock.”

The words have Soap attempting to spread his legs further, his still hard cock slapping noisily against the table apron as he presents himself. Fucking insatiable.

Sex isn’t something Ghost usually partakes in. It’s messy in more ways than one, the logistics of finding someone who could match his deviancy itself is a non-starter, and the thought of being seen beneath the meticulously crafted layers of his identity isn’t something that makes his dick wet. 

Not to mention the dedication of his life to an organization that ships him off to the other side of the planet. 

It’s unsettling, blood-boiling, that no matter where he searches for something to free him from this monstrous fixation, he only finds things that cement it further.

Soap lets out a noisy keen, body bowing into the rough pace of Ghost’s hand, his rim clutching the hilt with each thrust. Ghost shushes him, “Relax for me. You’re steady,” and Soap moans like it hurts, to be this pleasured.

Ghost’s neglected cock hangs from his fly, heavy and throbbing with the need to rut right into his hole alongside the knife, the ache hardly soothed with a hand wrapped around himself.

“Fuck, yes, finally. Give it to me,” Soap says at the unmistakable, wet squelch of Ghost fisting his cock.

“Impatient little slag,” Ghost says with an open hand slap to Soap’s arsecheek, “That’s no way to speak to your lieutenant.”  The tip of his cock smears a hot line of precome across his arsecheek as he watches the flared butt of the hilt catch on Soap’s puffy rim, then slide out completely.

“Would be a shame if this pretty hole went unfucked ‘cause of it,” Ghost continues, cock throbbing in the vise of his fist when he feels the feverish heat of the hilt, warmed by Soap’s insides.

“No! Wait—” Soap shouts, and Ghost catches the hand that comes back in a crushing grip as he struggles to control his breathing. 

Ghost hums in amusement at Soap’s protest, “No? There something else you want?” 

The words Soap mumbles out in reply are muffled into the crook of his arm, ears flaming red as he petulantly shoves his hips back in Ghost’s direction.

It really would be cute if Ghost’s atrophied self control wasn’t quickly unraveling at the sight of Soap’s hole clenching around nothing as he’s bent over and begging for his CO’s cock.

Ghost wrenches Soap’s head back with a fist in his mohawk with lips pulled back in a snarl, giving Soap a final chance before he throws him over a knee to give him a lesson, until his hand comes away wet with blood, “I expected better from you.”

“Wait—Fuck, Ghost, I need it, your cock—” Soap starts, words wobbling with each yank to his mohawk. 

Ghost clicks his tongue in disapproval and delivers a harsh, quick slap to his hole that just grazes Soap’s scrotum, “Forget your manners too, boy?”

“Please! Please sir, I need your cock in me,” Soap almost sobs, approaching hysterics, “Please, fuck me, sir!” 

And Ghost is all teeth. 

He grunts breathlessly as he feeds the tip of his cock into Soap’s loosened hole, not waiting to sheath himself completely, bullying past the tight vice of his rim.

The strangled cry of shock that breaks from Soap’s mouth morphs into a choked off moan, hips held fast by Ghost hands when he instinctively pulls away from the too-much too-soon girth.

The fever-hot clutch of his hole around Ghost’s cock has an honest to god moan falling from his lips, basking in his victory with an animal noise, “That’s a good lad.”

Soap’s hole pulses around him, velvety, slick walls hugging every ridge of Ghost’s cock perfectly, and he realizes with an involuntary jerk of his hips that Soap is coming on his cock. Untouched, between his legs, and dripping onto Ghost’s steel-toe boots. Holy fuck.

Ghost bows forward to speak into the crook of Soap’s neck, snaking a hand in between Soap’s shaking legs to grip his drooling cockhead, “You weren’t kidding.” Soap’s hips attempt to rise from the table to escape his brutish fingers, pinned by Ghost’s weight, “Were pretty pent up, huh. Poor Johnny’s not getting enough?”

“—big fucker. S’too much,” Soap gasps out between breaths, fingers scrawling uselessly against the exposed skin above Ghost’s cock—words pleading mercy but his body says otherwise, spine titling into a steeper arch to take more of him.

“Can’t handle what you begged for, Sergeant?” Ghost smears his come covered fingers across his lips then noisily sucks them into his mouth, savoring the pungent taste on his tongue. 

“Shut up,” Soap stutters out petulantly, words breaking on a moan when Ghost begins to really move inside him.

“Nah,” Ghost says, fingers plucking the head of Soap’s cock to see the desire and discomfort war on Soap’s pretty features, trembling body held fast by Ghost’s bracketing arms. 

The visible break in Soap’s disposition has a swell of genuine euphoria unfurling in his chest, and he intends to make every use of the knowledge that Soap likes to be called good.

“Think you like it. Like hearing my voice telling you what you’re going to do and how I want it done. Gets your little cock wet, followin’ my orders. Even on the field, I’d reckon,” Ghost hums when Soap’s cock drools out dribble of precome.

“Should’ve known a little praise would send your type off like that, tight like a fuckin’ vice on my cock. Christ.” The sound that pulls from Soap is wholly pornographic, his thickly-accented words slurring in the fit of his pleasure.

Soap’s white knuckling the other end of the table in an attempt to ground himself, tensing all that honed strength in his body to take cock. Ghost gathers Soap’s wrists in his hands to wrench them back, tugging until Soap has to lift his chest from the table with a wheeze in his throat.

He’s a military asset after all, plucked from the field and now his to plunder.

“ Fit fuckin’ body, MacTavish,” Ghost delivers a slaps his ass, spellbound by the obscene sight of the perfect cocksleeve of his hole stretching to fit his cock with each  thrust.

“You work hard for it, hm? All that training just to get bent over and used by me,” Soap writhes, tossing his hips back to meet Ghost’s like a goddamn bitch in heat that has the table rattling, and he huffs out a laugh, “Real thankful for your service, Sergeant.”

Ghost blankets himself over Soap’s body and snakes an arm into the hollow of his neck, locking it to haul Soap clean off the table and flush to his chest, his grip instinctually tightening in response to a garbled noise from Soap.

“Fucking take it,” Ghost growls into Soap’s temple, his frame trembling when his bare skin meets the assortment of cold metal clipped to Ghost’s vest. His moans are sweet cries of affirmation, hands coming up to paw weakly at Ghost’s forearm.

The headlock wouldn’t be trouble for a trained soldier to break, but Soap doesn’t make any attempt to—deliberately delivering his access to consciousness entirely to Ghost’s hands. That has Ghost’s mouth drying out, an animal sensation clawing at his chest, fit to burst with something he can’t name.

He spreads his legs and bends them at the knees, angling his hips up to rut against Soap’s prostate in shallow thrusts. The devastating need to keep him as close as possible is unmooring for Ghost, unable to bear the thought of them separating now, not now, not—

Ghost drops the headlock in favor of curling a hand around his throat, the promise of his ownership tightening like a collar. He sucks bruises into the plush skin beneath Soap’s jaw until he’s sure they’ll linger for days, and that doesn’t feel nearly long enough. 

The dizzying haze of his arousal isn’t enough to bury the frustrating need to know what it really was that did it for Soap, beyond the adrenaline. Months of his unwitting pining answered in the span of hours.

Most men in his shoes would take Soap’s anything and run with it, but his ego calls for appeasement in the form of words.

He pets a hand through Soap’s sweat slicked mohawk, shushing him as he pushes it back from his forehead, a dopey smile tilting his lips as his eyes flutter shut.

Every action seems to draw Soap deeper into the pit of submission, and that’s a thing a soldier wouldn’t surrender easily, just to get his rocks off. 

More than that. A thing that resembles the way Ghost’s heart seems to beat out of his chest simply at the sight of Soap.

There’s a loud part of him that wants for some form of rejection to soothe the instinct for self preservation, save them both the time and the pain. There’s a quieter, more insidious urge that is ready to bare its teeth if he does hear the wrong combination of words from Soap’s mouth.

Insisting that if he can’t have Soap like this again, always, then no one else will, either.

Ghost quietly retrieves the knife from the table and wipes the slicked hilt off on his cargos, tucking Soap deeper into his embrace.

He shushes Soap when his body jerks at the cold press of metal to his neck. Soap’s body draws tense at the sight of Ghost’s unblinking stare, hole involuntarily constricting around his cock.

“You…” Ghost croaks, sweat cooling on his nape as he pushes the words from his chest despite the sensation that his sternum will crack open any moment now.

It’s a struggle that hasn’t plagued him until now, to articulate things that veer toward the emotional. It’s something he has no basis for, no experience in how to handle that strangling sensation when he thinks of the crows feet that gather at the corners of Soap’s eyes when he smiles.

It makes his skin crawl in a new way, fuming with the feeling that there’s something he’s missed. He makes a failed effort to keep the venom from his voice, “You want the fuckin’ truth? The hell do you want from me, Johnny?” and even more painfully, “If you do,” he drowns the words with the light press of the blade into the column of Soap’s neck, just splitting the skin.

Soap blinks owlishly, swallowing hard. He pauses before opening his mouth to say something, and shuts it just as quick.

Ghost forces Soap’s mouth open with a hand to his jaw, sure it’ll bruise if he lets this go on much longer.

“Fine, fine,” Soap sighs, going limp in Ghost’s arms.

Ghost eases the blade off, poising the tip above Soap’s thrumming jugular. He has to suppress the muscle memory that screams for him to complete the motion, sink the blade in from ear to ear—until Soap’s words are drowning in blood.

“Saw you on that man back in Belize. Must’ve thought you were in the clear, that no one was watching,” the simper is evident in his voice, a sliver of blue smiles back at Ghost, “But I was.”

Ghost’s stare hardens in tandem with the grip around Soap’s jaw, until Soap’s expression draws up. From the pleasure or pain of it, he doesn’t know anymore. But, he does know exactly what mission Soap is referring to.

It was anything but an impulse.

The mission had been less of a bloodbath than anticipated, almost void of human life before Ghost had even infiltrated. He was tracing his path back to their temp base alone, veering off the trail in search for what could have been the glare of a sniper that he caught on their departure.

The man was poised at the end of his scope, silent and deadly, his fatal mistake being on the other end of Ghost’s.

Ghost was moving on him before his thoughts had caught up, restraint thrown to the wind with just the two of them in the forest. 

He assumedly begged for mercy in a language Ghost doesn’t know when he bent his elbows in directions they shouldn’t go, and that didn't exactly get in the way of his cock firming up at the sound of his wretched, pained wheezes. The gratifying snap of breaking bone. 

When his cries of pain became loud enough to attract attention, he sank the knife in until it was silent again. 

It was a sort of confirmation that those kinds of kills began to lose their thorough satisfaction, after Soap had appeared in his life. 

Gave him something real to want for.

They were shipped out for that mission a day after the first time he so rudely interrupted Soap in the middle of practically getting fucked over his clothes by some wide-shouldered military twat in the pub alleyway. Soap looked as flustered as Ghost felt when he offered him a cigarette, hands shaking with the sudden, sharp boil of rage at the sight of a fucking stranger touching his sergeant. 

The knowledge that it’d never be him.

It didn’t help that on the helo back he could feel the heat of Soap’s gaze boring into the side of his mask, his respite short lived.

Ghost long discarded the notion that any action taken with an SAS badge on his chest could be categorized good or bad, they just are. They’re orders to be followed, orders that he’ll continue to obey so he can exact his own level of control over himself, and others. Gladly reducing humans down to dots and lines on a page, if they’re accounted for at all.

The louder the screams, the more he’s proven right. They deserve it in the end anyway, for positioning themselves on the other end of his piece.

If he were a good man he’d go home broken up about it, punish himself in a bottle of Bulleit.

But he doesn’t, and he’s not.

But does it feel bloody fucking good to hear Soap’s breath quicken when Ghost bears his hips into him after the confession. Wide blue eyes searching his for a lick of approval.

The sniper was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ghost told himself that as he wrestled his cock from his briefs. The pile of gore at his feet was just too easy to picture as the man that laid his hands on Soap, sullied what’s his.

The empty eyes of a dead man as his only witness, or so he thought. 

Now, the sole, surviving spectator to his performance is grinding his slutty hole back onto Ghost’s cock, at the mercy of his knife. 

It’s a confirmation of all the things Ghost didn’t let himself begin to hope for, to have the darkest depths of his desires coveted by Soap. He ordinarily wouldn’t hesitate to kill a man for such a careless admission, but it only has his heart fluttering in anticipation.

He studies the gleam of Soap’s cheshire grin as he leans forward into the pressure of the blade, urging it to cut his skin open.

“You’re a sick puppy,” Ghost says after a beat of silence, voice rough to his own ears as his thoughts spiral down into a single point— this is what did it for Soap, the evidence of his violence.

Soap grins when Ghost replaces the knife with his thumb, smearing the few drops of blood between their skin. “And you’re a patron saint,” Soap says, a sharp edge to his voice that makes Ghost wonder.

He forces Soap’s jaw up with the sharp tip of his knife, “You jealous, Sergeant?”

Soap huffs out a breath, “Hard to be when I know you didn’t use this one,” head cocking down at the knife pressed to his throat. He shouldn't be surprised to know Soap’s noticed it, with how much he shines the damn thing.

“Dreamt of this, you know,” Soap says, his stubble rough against the heated skin of Ghost’s cheek, “This one just for me, sir?”

It’s a request. For Ghost to stake his claim, to confirm that yes, this knife has only been used on Soap. That he’ll be the only one.

That there simply isn’t an alternative.

It’s all he wants.

“It is,” it all is, the sound of his own voice is unrecognizable in its honesty.

“It’s a bonnie one. Like its wielder,” Soap says and Ghost can’t stifle the scoff before it comes out. Bonnie. He’s been called a lot of things with a knife pressed to someone’s throat, but nothing so contrived.

“Sounds like you want the sharp end in you this time,” the shudder it pulls from Soap is wrought and gorgeous, “Could do it right now,” Ghost growls, clutching Soap’s body so brusquely that his bones ache, “Take you apart bit by bit, bleed you until you’re dry. How sorry they’d be when I call your body in... I’m sure a hole as tight as this will be missed.”

Soap bares his throat, breath hot and ragged against Ghost’s jaw—an ask, a dare. He wants it, and even more tempting is the thought that if he did, Soap could truly never leave. His beauty stuck in time, embalmed at Ghost’s side.

The thought of Soap’s pretty cries going quiet is one he can’t bear.

The value of human life in their line of work is smudged, something disposable. And really, Ghost doesn’t think he’s valued a life until Soap’s, his mechanical self preservation taking on a new meaning, helpless to the curiosity it brings.

“Or you’d rather have an audience for it? Like he did?” Ghost hums when Soap’s hips buck at the words, “You want them to watch don’t you, watch how good you can be for me. How good I use you,” he pants out, the lurid slap of Soap’s arse against Ghost’s hips is loud in the room, drowned out only by Soap’s growing cries, “Just a little faggot desperate for your CO’s cock. You want them to use you too, do you?”

Soap shakes his head, “No! Just you. Just yours,” his hands come back to keep Ghost there and he feels like he could scream, “Never —ah, never been with a man, not like this. Never got off to takin’ orders, just giving them. Knew I’d like it too much.”

It’s an admission, thrust into Ghost’s hands carelessly like he’s meant to tend after it. Like he’s supposed to be able to breathe normally after Soap’s admitted to relinquishing that vice to Ghost.  

He can only return the favor of Soap’s trust, expose the worst parts of himself.

Ghost angles the blade into Soap’s neck and the skin parts immediately, pulling a hiss of pain from him. The wound pours over, droplets quickly caught on Ghost’s lips before they can pool in the dip of his clavicle. Tongue and teeth will the wound open and Ghost’s half mad with the idea of tearing it away between his teeth—glutting himself on Soap’s flesh until he’s finally, truly fed.

He cuts until his neck is dashed with little slits of red that bleed into one another, suckled puffy and red by Ghost’s nursing tongue, “Do you have any fuckin’ idea how hard it is to control myself around you,” he breathes into the humid skin of his bared neck.

“Tell me, tell me,” Soap writhes against Ghost’s chest, eyes darting wildly to follow the knife as it trails down to stop over his sternum.

“I wanna.. I wanna see in here. Be the first one, the only one. Drink the blood straight from your fucking heart.” Ghost says, the blade trembling with the shake of his hands.

Soap barks out a noise that resembles a laugh, hysterical and shaking.

Ghost latches his mouth to the new incision, groaning at the sweet agony of Soap occupying every last one of his senses, “Crack open your ribs to eat the marrow from your fucking bones, Johnny,” and Christ that has Soap crying out like a hurt animal, attempting to rut his greedy hole back onto Ghost’s cock despite his restrained position.

Ghost takes a steadying breath, unclenching his fists to stave off the compulsion for cruelty.

He wants to see them, the weeping slits on Soap’s neck, Soap’s eyes on him, too. Ghost drops the hold altogether and Soap barely catches himself before falling face first into the table. Ghost flips him, a hand pressed firmly to his chest until he’s flat against it.

Ghost wastes no time in notching his cockhead back into the hot clutch of Soap’s hole, where he belongs. It twists Soap’s flushed face, hands closing over Ghost’s to guide them to tweak his pebbled nipples. His spine bowed in an arch like he knows it, knows what he looks like here—spread out and goddamn fucking gorgeous. 

He craves to run the knife over each divot of scar tissue that litters Soap’s body, to make them his own. Take his time splitting them back open until the pain of each one belongs to him.

The mottled flush on his skin deepens when Ghost smears the drool on Soap’s chin into his skin, eyes widening like he didn’t know it was there. Ghost grips him, using Soap’s cock and balls as leverage to bury himself deeper.

Nothing’s ever fit this perfectly in his hands. Knotted with scars and divots of wounds that healed wrong and soaked in the blood of thousands of men, and Soap only bows closer to them with sweet noises sounding from the back of his throat, like there couldn’t be anything better. 

And Ghost finds himself drawn closer by the sweet sounds, bowing forward to find Soap’s eyes on his, a closeness that would ordinarily have his skin crawling.

Ghost is struck by the realization that he wishes his layers were discarded after all, longing to feel the searing heat of Soap’s skin against his own as he takes him—a notion that’s too far for even his most foolish fantasies.

He follows the thought until it’s painful, penetrating every weak point with the contorting desire to shield Soap from the misery of this world, safe, in his arms. So that he’ll only know his torment, only the sweet suffering doled from his hands.

Soap’s looking for answers to his pleas, to be made into something worthy. To be given something to believe in.

Ghost can be that meaning for him.

He lets himself be tugged the rest of the way down by the urging hands sunk into the straps of his vest. Soap spreads his legs wider when their hips are flush, dragging Ghost down until his breaths pant hotly into the curve of Soap’s parted lips.

Ghost runs his tongue over Soap’s bottom lip and that has him sucking in a breath, visibly shaking with the effort to hold himself still. Waiting like a good fucking boy for Ghost to claim him.

“Tongue,” Ghost orders and Soap complies eagerly, twitching under the contact when Ghost glides the tip of his tongue against his. It wrings a throaty moan from him when Ghost wraps a hand around his cock and suckles his tongue into his mouth before closing the distance to claim him, wordlessly urged deeper with the insistent pressure of Soap’s heels to his lower back.

Soap tests his limits with a nip of his teeth to Ghost’s bottom lip and he tugs Soap up from the table until he’s forced to awkwardly crane his neck up to maintain the kiss—and he does, his perfect picture of submission. 

Ghost's teeth set into a shallow grind and he drops his hand from Soap’s cock to bring it to his rim, forcing his thumb in beside his cock and wrenching a moan from both of them at the increased pressure.

“Jesus wept,” Soap pants into his skin, hands coming up to brace himself on Ghost’s shoulders as he begins to really drive his hips forward, spurred on by the burn of Soap’s stubble to his sensitive skin. A stilted cry is pulled from him with each jostling thrust that clink Soap’s dog tags against the metal on his vest. Fuck.

Rabid thoughts cling to him as he gapes Soap’s hole open on the hook of his thumb, “Who’s this belong to, Johnny.”

Soap sobs, “Ghost—”

“Say my fucking name,” Ghost snarls out, their eye contact blurring at the confirmation. That at least right here in Ghost’s arms, Johnny is his.

“Simon," he cries, voice pitching as he claws at Ghost’s shoulders as he claims him further with each deliberate thrust of his hips—mine, mine, mine.

It’s the first time he’s heard his name turned into something sweet and it unlodges something in his chest, making room for things he never thought he’d be worthy of.

The bruising grip on Soap’s waist wrings soft, pained noises into Ghost’s mouth and he crushes him closer with a growl, distraught with the need to meld the erratic beat of Soap’s heart into his own. Ghost goes half-blind with pleasure when he flattens a palm to the skin below Soap’s belly button and can feel the pressure on his cock.

The drawn strings of his self control catch in the cloying, intoxicating cling of Soap’s body to his own, his body opening up for him like he was born to take it, take him.

The filthy grind of his hips into Soap’s abused hole is unbearably erotic, every level of his desperation mirrored in Soap making him weak—he wants, and wants, and he’s going to come if he doesn’t pull out.

Ghost parts from the kiss to steady himself and Soap is on him, tongue lapping at the corner of his jaw, dropping lower to nip and mouth at the column of his neck, to collect his sweat on his tongue. Cold fingers snake beneath the hem of Ghost’s shirt, tearing a shudder from his body when Soap’s palms splay over his sweltering skin.

The searing, messy press of Soap’s lips on his usually concealed skin is as alluring as it is dangerous—it has Ghost’s embrace turning brutish, the animal part of his brain screaming to bare its teeth and satiate itself with the easy snap of Soap’s neck. 

Soap doesn’t heed the growl of his snapping jowls, deeming him worth the injury.

His thoughts get caught in the riptide of Soap’s warm, clasping hands on his skin and he begins to tilt his jaw up to let Soap touch more of his usually hidden skin, his body urging surrender, to let himself have this—but he can’t.

The same time as he’s pulling out, he’s wrenching Soap’s mouth off his body with a hand to his windpipe, grip turning brutal when Soap tries to bring him down with him and the disgruntled expression of a mutt robbed of its meal twists his features. With teeth bared and a sound of dismay on his lips, he concedes.

Ghost rewards him with the mercy of crooked fingers in his sopping hole, his cock throbbing for the hot vice of it. It eases the hard lines in Soap’s expression, pacified by the rough intrusion. 

The dark swirls of hair on his abdomen are matted down with the mess of his precome, his thick bush framing the pure sin of his pretty cock, red and weeping over his hip. So hard it looks painful.

Every bit of him speaks prey to Ghost, belly up and inviting him to come and play before taking a bite out.

Ghost rummages through his vest for the zippo he nicked from some newbies that were taking it to an anthill. Soap perks up at the clink of metal as Ghost opens and shuts it, moving to prop himself only for Ghost to spread a firm hand over his sternum.

“What’re ye doing—” the roughened, unsteady timbre to Soap’s voice has Ghost pressing the cold metal to Soap’s ribs before his thoughts can catch up.

He hums in response to the jerk of Soap’s body, “Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

What Ghost wants to know is how far pain can take him, and nothing is going to get in the way of that now. He’ll feed the beast in Soap that wants to hurt, wants Ghost to hurt him. Distend the edges of Soap’s boundaries until they reach their limits, past that. And he’ll be there to fit the pieces back together when they break, in his image.

He lights the zippo, tilting it so that the lid is caught in the dancing flame.

Ghost swipes a thumb over the underside of Soap’s cock, firm strokes across the small nub of raised skin just beneath the head that has Soap arching off the table. Sensitive where Ghost was hoping he would be.

“Fuck. I’m gonna— gonna come,” Soap gasps out, sweat glistening over his knit brows.

“Are you?” Ghost asks, cocking an eyebrow. The pitiful noise of frustration that earns has Ghost’s cock twitching where it’s hanging between his legs, heavy and wet.

Ghost holds Soap’s leg fast to his shoulder and brings the heated metal of the zippo to the pale skin of Soap’s inner thigh, removing his fingers from Soap’s cock in the same moment.

“Oh fuck,” Soap exclaims, voice strained. His hips attempt to jolt up then away, pinned by Ghost’s thick forearm.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Ghost pinches the now pinkened skin, thrill crawling hot up his spine when it makes Soap squirm.

It satisfies something visceral in Ghost, demanding to be fed in the form of unshakable Sergeant MacTavish writhing and whining for a kind of gratification that only he can give. Not just taking it, but reveling in it, basking in it like Ghost is too. Precome leaks so copiously from Soap’s cockslit that Ghost thinks he could’ve come already, orgasm ruined by the denial of his touch.

”Almost there. Suffer for me a little longer,” Ghost captures Soap’s wandering hand in his own. Soap’s fingers tangle into his, his calloused palms catching on his own. It’s oddly exposing, a union so tender that he could forget all of the blood these hands have shed. If Soap asked him to.

Soap’s features speak the pleasure of his body, a rapture so sweet that Ghost has to fight off the urge to memorialize it in some way.

He expected the rough drag of Soap’s thumb over his palm to feel like some level of sacrifice.

The faithful, uncomfortable need to hide is replaced by something warm, soothing him the longer he holds himself still to the feeling.

The only thing that feels suffocating is the mask.

Soap lips part on a moan when Ghost’s hips meet the back of his thighs, cock sliding through the wet mess between their bodies to slot against Soap’s. It feels a bit daft now to still be wearing the barrier that retains his anonymity when he’s seemingly been able to see through all along. Known what Ghost is.

An animal deprived, and he’s the only one culpable. 

He tugs the mask off the rest of the way, the shock of cold air welcome to his overheating skin. 

Whatever it is that Soap sees on his face has the haze of heat in his eyes joined by a certain softened agony, crows feet collecting at the corners of them.

An expression that Ghost has only seen directed at others.

Ghost presses the mask into Soap’s palm, closing his hand around it with the lacing of their fingers.

The warmed metal of the zippo heats his hand when he lights it again. Ghost pulls Soap’s foreskin back, keeping a steady pressure around his glans until his body is tensing, a bitten off curse on his lips.

“Simon,” Soap gasps out, breath hitching into the crook of his arm slung across his forehead, “Please, Simon,” his bliss slackened expression fulfilling things in Ghost that he didn’t know were empty.

Ghost rewards his pleas with the press of hot metal to the sensitive underside of his cock, “Go on,” and Soap does. 

The sound it pulls from Soap is akin to a squeal of swine met with slaughter as his cock spurts ropes of come, the white of his eyes showing as they roll back. He moans weakly when Ghost continues to milk his cock, the thick hair on his abdomen glistening with the spread of Ghost’s cum drenched fingers.

It’s becoming less foreign, the warming, deep satisfaction of indulging Soap’s pain-warped pleasure that exposes this new, obedient side of him in order to obtain it.

A part of Soap that hungers to be splattered with the bloodshed of Ghost’s violence. Get it on his tongue and look to Ghost for permission to swallow.

Something ravenous still thrums under his skin that requires a change in Soap, an undeniable mark of Ghost’s ownership. 

A disfigurement so permanent that he won’t be rid of it until the day his body returns to the earth. 

He fishes through his vest pockets for his pack of reds, pressing one to his lips to light it.

The contrast of the cherry red tip to the pale inside of Soap’s skin is stark, an image that he could lose himself to. Soap makes a pitiful noise in his throat when his bleary eyes settle on Ghost’s intentions.

The slight nod of his head makes Ghost’s cock ache where it’s slotted into the indentation of his hip, hard and leaking at the prospect of indulging Soap. Hurting him in ways that he should never want him to.

He notches his cockhead into Soap’s hole, needing to feel the clench of pain for himself. He takes him again with rough, claiming thrusts, held captive with the firm press of Ghost’s hand to his lower back, asking, “What do you need?” Ghost knows, and knows he can’t go without hearing it just as much.

A whisper of words on Soap’s chapped lips deliver him further to the promise of Ghost’s loving abuse, “Hurt me, Simon, hurt me, hurt me,” voice hitching in its urgency, like every second that goes by in being denied brings him new agony.

Ghost flattens a hand over the rapid fluttering of Soap’s heartbeat as he positions the cigarette over it and it feels as though his fingers have become knives. One wrong move and he’d pierce right through, impale Soap’s throbbing heart.

A clutch of adrenaline thrums in his chest like it does before he pulls a trigger, and this result will be just as ruinous. 

Ghost takes a drag and the cherry burns hot enough that he can feel it on his cheeks. He cups Soap’s cheek as he lowers it, for once not resisting the urge to smile, “You’re all fucking mine, aren’t you, Johnny? Just can't help yourself.”

He snuffs the smoldering tip out on Soap’s skin, over his beating heart.

Soap’s broken cry of pleasure is a sound that he’ll keep forever, chase after it until the air leaves his lungs, an answer to questions he didn’t know he had.

Ghost lowers himself to replace the withered cigarette with his tongue, Soap’s locking limbs only clutching him tighter to his victory.

Ghost chases the immediate leak of plasma and ash as he laps at the cauterized wound, the acrid scent of burning flesh only turning his blood hotter.

The cries of his name spill into sweet babbles and Ghost retreats enough to catch the sight of Soap’s reddened cheeks. The beauty of his clear blue eyes are darkened in color by tears, his long dark lashes heavy with it. It takes Ghost a moment to parse the sounds from Soap’s moving lips, realizing with a start that Soap is thanking him. Christ above.

He pets over Soap’s temple, “I’ve got you…” and he wets  his fingers with his tears, “Perfect. Bloody perfect for me,” are the only words he can manage through the tightness in his chest. Nothing could take this from him.

He descends, the salt of Soap’s tears mixing with the acrid taste of ash as he laps them from his temple, following the trail to lap at his lash line. A giggle starts in Soap’s throat, ticklish to Ghost’s greedy tongue, only growing in volume when he fully envelopes him to cradle him in his arms. Fat, unshed tears clump his dark lashes above placid blue eyes, voice sounding like it’s taking on water with a shuddering breath, “Simon.. It’s just you.”

“I know,” Ghost replies, hushed, the words torn from his very soul.

He encompasses Soap’s body in the curl of his chest to press lips to Soap’s jaw, muttering his name sweetly into the column of his neck.

The first touch of Soap’s fingers on the shorn hairs on the back of his neck startle a grunt from his chest. Soap’s hands move higher to twine themselves into where he lets it grow longer and tug tentatively, the pinpricks of pain going straight to his cock. Ghost tries to imagine what he’s done in a past life to get him here, because he surely hasn’t earned it in this one.

His head tilts back, greedy for the contact, and apparently emboldening Soap to tighten a hand there and yank him down into a searing kiss.

Soap’s fingers scrawl down to the top of Ghost vest, the hem of his shirt, then under, his mouth parting from Soap’s with a stifled gasp.

Ghost kisses the pained noise from Soap’s lips when he wraps his hands around his half-hard cock to drown Soap in pleasure, the skin raised and angry where the hot metal had kissed it. Squirming just how Ghost wants him, senses torn over the fine line of too much. His words echo the sentiment, voice breaking when Ghost bends his knees and angles his cock upward in an aimed thrust, just buried inside. He knows he’s got it dead on when Soap sucks in a breath, his face screwing up like a man tortured. But Ghost knows better.

“You got one more in you,” Ghost says, infallible to the ache setting into his joints as he fucks into Soap’s prostate. 

“Hurts. I can’t—” Soap pleads, new, fat tears rolling down his cheeks to be caught by Ghost’s tongue, hot against his skin.

“You will,” Ghost replies, Soap’s thighs a crushing grip around his middle as he gives himself over to Ghost’s demand.

The sight of measly drops of watery-thin fluid dribbling from his cockslit fills his chest with pride, knowing he’s reached Soap’s limit.

“Eyes on me,” and the twist of lost, wide-eyed pleasure on Soap’s face as his lashes flutter open to find him momentarily stuns him.

It’s a look that a lesser man’s knees would give out for. That men would flatten cities for, kill for, die for, and Ghost feels like he’s toeing the precipice of every outcome, ready to deliver himself.

He knows that men like him aren’t seeing heaven, and knows that none of that matters, not when he’s got this.

Ghost hitches Soap’s pelvis up with a palm to his lower back, the new angle taking him in deep, drawing a suffering groan from Ghost’s chest.

Soap is so good he can’t take it, blinded by a radiance he’s unworthy of. His claim’s been laid, but that doesn’t stop the bone deep itch, to make Soap his until his voice is lost and body collapsing with fatigue. 

He gathers Soap’s spent cock and balls and squeezes until Soap sounds like he’s suffering, “This belongs to me.”

He plucks the dog tags from his chest, metal glimmering with the wet of his fingers, “This.”

Ghost noses down his temple to just below his jaw and inhales his scent, gaze sharpening when his eyes set on the wounds on his neck that are already beginning to darken into a scab, attempting to heal. It makes him bristle.

He curls a hand around the back of his neck and laps at his split skin, smiling when Soap shudders. “This,” he murmurs, then seals his lips around the wound.

Ghost fingers become claws on Soap’s skin to hold him there, mindlessly rutting forward into his hole with how violently arousing the taste of blood is on his tongue. Ghost moans openly, an animal-like sound crawling up his throat when Soap tilts his head back, inviting him in.

Ghost pulls at the split skin with his teeth, gorging himself until nausea begins to settle in his throat at the sheer volume. Each hair on his arms stands on end as he pulls away, his flushed cheeks wet with quickly cooling blood.

“God,” Soap says, “You’re a sick fuckin’ bastard,” the fondness in his eyes betraying his words, the fingers wound tightly into Ghost’s hair only soothing where they should hurt, evidence that it’s real.

Ghost huffs out the closest thing to a laugh into his neck. He is sick. Been sick. And this feels like a cure so potent and overwhelming that he expects to wake up from the dream any moment.

“Made me do this,” Ghost says, voice as miserable as he feels. He presses a thumb close enough to the burn on Soap’s chest to earn a gasp, but not sinking into the sore, “Why’d you have to make me like this, ruined…” he eclipses the wound, not knowing whose chest the wrecked groan sounds from sounds from as he fills Soap over and over with a bruising grip on his shoulder, “You’ve no idea, the fuckin’ mess you’ve made me…”

Their breaths become one in the space between them, all of the turmoil of his world falling silent in the rapture of Soap’s attention. Soap closes the distance, leaning up to lick his own blood from Ghost’s cheek to his chin, lapping himself from the seam of his lips.

A gesture so tender it feels scalding on Ghost’s skin, the live wires of his nerves outside his body. Ghost blinks back blurriness that threatens his vision, seen for what he is and adored for it. 

The thick hair on Soap’s flush-blotched chest is matted with their sweat, Soap’s come and blood. Neck wet and glistening where Ghost’s teeth had bloodletted his skin anew, an image he’ll spend the rest of his life worshipping. 

All Soap is missing is Ghost’s blood on his skin.

Ghost feels around for the knife, metal flickering in the light as he turns it over to grip the blade. He knows Soap would go anywhere he follows.

He extends the hilt to Soap. “C’mon,” he offers his open palm, urging to Soap’s gobsmacked expression, “Do it. Want my blood… All over you.” and Soap’s smile is gorgeous.

Soap presses the cold metal to his palm and blistering pleasure pulses at his core, drawing taut and ready to snap, his senses pitched into a frenzy as he bottoms out with every rough thrust. Soap’s gleaming canines are all he sees as Soap slashes the blade across his skin, splitting it open.

The sound that comes out of Ghost’s mouth is a broken one as he closes his hand around Soap’s throat, the torn open skin of Soap’s wounds catching on his own—the joining of their flesh an irrevocable bond.

Soap makes a miserable noise when he realizes and bares his throat more for Ghost, pressing himself up into his brutal grip, “Oh fuck. Fuckin’-ah” Soap cries, slack-jawed as Ghost’s orgasm seizes his body, chest heaving as the pulsing throbs of his cock fill Soap with his come, marking him inside and out.

Owning him there, too.

Ghost pulls out with a wet suctioning noise between their skin, fingers fondling his hole to catch the seep of his come. He spreads the mess up his body, over Soap’s chest to his neck and smears their shared fluids into any split skin his fingers can find. Melding his come into Soap’s flesh itself.

His tongue follows the pink-ish fluids, noisily sucking their come and blood from the glistening whorls of Soap’s body hair.

Soap collects any traces of Ghost’s come on his fingers, moving them down to press them into his abused hole, pushing in when he sees Ghost’s eyes settle there. He stuffs them deep with little, overstimulated whimpers, a picture of pure sin with lashes fluttering on his high, red cheekbones.

Ghost presents his fingers to Soap’s mouth, the flicks of his tongue soon turning filthy with full rolls of his tongue between each finger, guiding Ghost’s palm to his lips to give the weeping wound the same treatment. A whorish moan tears from his chest at the taste of him, straight from the source.

“So bloody good for me…” Ghost says, stupefied by the softness of Soap’s mohawk under his fingers as he pets through it. Soap nods and nods, groaning wantonly when Ghost licks into his mouth.

It’s exactly what Soap deserves, every serrated edge.

The gash on his palm stings where Soap’s tongue feeds his own come into it.

The stinging pain awards him clarity, checking with Soap before turning to their discarded kits. His pupils are fuckin’ huge, the stim likely wearing off sometime soon and he’ll have to get him somewhere comfortable for the crash. He pulls the bottle of antiseptic from his gear and begins to clean out Soap’s wounds, peppering soft kisses to his heated skin in the form of an apology for the sting.

Ghost can’t help the way he mourns his come being cleaned from the burn over Soap’s heart, absentmindedly wondering what he’ll be adding to the burn scar on Soap’s chest after it’s healed into a ragged keloid scar. There, or give him something at the base of his sternum where the skin is thin, sensitive. Where it’ll scar easily.

Next time. Next time. Stuck with Ghost whether he likes it or not and despite his better judgment, Ghost is beginning to suspect that Soap really fucking likes it.

His newly added, most prized possession. His to abuse as much as he’s his to dote on. He runs a hand over Soap’s strong body, every part of it now having a new meaning to Ghost. All of it, belonging to him.

Soap leans into the care, going pliant for his manhandling hands as he looks him over.

“No more chattin’ up lads at the pub, then?” Soap rasps out with a slight grin as his eyes track Ghost, knowingly playing with fire.

Ghost gives his cock and balls a squeeze, “Not if you want to keep these, cheeky shite.”

“They’re yours either way,” Soap laughs, but he knows there’s some level of sincerity there, filling his mind with vulgar images of what he’s going to do with Soap once he can get him off base again. 

“Before that, we’ll have to get this sorted. Stitches, likely,” Ghost says.

Soap’s fingers come up to fit into Ghost’s, his brow furrowing as he clasps them together, “Wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve played off to med-bay.” Ghost has half a mind to tuck him into a headlock and force the confession, more concerned about how they’ll go about explaining it away to med-bay. For now.

And Price. Fuck’s sake. Ghost pinches his forehead and searches for his radio to only find Soap’s, and that’s good enough.

“I’ve got a kit,” Ghost replies, averting Soap’s gaze.

It’s the most forward thing he’s ever said, ears burning with embarrassment, may as well have declared until death do us part in inviting Soap to his quarters. Besides the fact that he’s still wearing Soap’s blood on his cheeks.

“It’s a date then,” Soap winks and yeah, Ghost is going to make sure some of the scars take their sweet time in healing. He patches into Price’s frequency after a few attempts and makes himself known.

Soap yanks Ghost flush to the backs of his thighs with strong legs slung around his hips. His softened cock begins to fill out against Soap’s humid skin when the hot suction of his lips close around his fingers, having to stifle a groan with a cough when Soap hitches his hips up to grind his sloppy, clenching hole to Ghost’s cock.

Whatever Soap sees on his face only spurs him on further, drawing his fingers in deeper to his mouth and sucking loudly, no doubt with the intention for Price to hear while they exchange coordinates.

Ghost holds the radio away from Price’s not-so-happy monologue to growl out, “You’re a menace,” his fingers thrusting up cruelly into Soap’s soft palate. 

No words are required to communicate the smug tilt of Soap’s lips, hot tongue lapping at the backs of his knuckles—you like me this way. 

And fuck, yeah Ghost does.