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Soap likes to think of himself as an easy-going guy.
He doesn’t make a big deal out of getting assigned to missions he couldn’t care less about. He’ll eat whatever they’re serving in the mess hall without complaint. He prides himself on taking one for the team, not rocking the boat, playing ball. All that shit.
So at first, Soap doesn’t even notice that Ghost never lets him top.
For months, Soap is too busy reckoning with the Jesus fucking Christ no way feeling that he’s getting railed by cool and collected Simon “Ghost” Riley behind closed doors on a regular basis to dwell on the fact that he, well…hasn’t railed him back.
Every time he starts out on top of the lieutenant, hands pinning hands to Ghost’s too-small bed in the barracks, he gets overpowered and flipped and distracted. Whenever Soap goes to finger Ghost while giving him a blowjob, Soap gets pulled up and their positions are reversed before he can question it. And then there was that time they were drunk at some bar and Soap pretty explicitly said he wanted to take Ghost back to the dorms so someone could finally fuck his uptight arse proper—and that night also somehow ended up with Soap being the one getting his arse fucked.
And here’s the thing. Ghost’s cool and collected, sure. But unlike Soap, he’s anything but easy-going. Simon’s one of those guys who stands to take a hit to his ego if he doesn’t get his way.
…He’s kind of asking to get his back blown out. Soap’s just saying, is all.
Look. It’s not that Soap is some egalitarian homosexuality cop. He doesn’t give a shit if Ghost has his preferences. With or without the earthly delight of topping during penetrative gay sex, since everything that happened in Las Almas last month, Soap’s life at Ghost’s side has been pretty fucking sweet. He’s just making observations, that’s it. That’s all he’s doing.
Tonight, they’ve retired to the barracks and Soap’s snuck into Ghost’s dorm and Ghost’s in a shit mood. Shittier than usual, Soap means. So once again it’s probably not the night to try something new, even though Soap is admirably sober and Ghost’s cargos are distractingly tight.
Again, Soap’s easy-going. He knows all about leading not into temptation, and whatever. Some would say he’s like, the expert on it. He’s fine. Everything’s fine.
…Apart from staring at Ghost’s arse too much during missions. And apart from the fact that ninety percent of his jerk off sessions recently have revolved around fantasizing about getting into that arse. And especially apart from waking up a few times in the middle of the night to find himself spooning the lieutenant and literally rutting at his arse like an unneutered fuckin’ dog.
Okay. So Soap’s easy-going—and he also wants to fuck the guy who saved his life so bad it’s making him a wee bit crazy. Both things can be true.
After he’s done making a commendable but ineffective effort to resolve Ghost’s shit mood with conversation, Soap braces either knee astride Ghost’s hips and holds his shoulders down and kisses him on the bed. He’s careful to kiss the way that takes Ghost off-guard—the leisurely, open-mouthed, all-tongue way that Ghost gets quiet and still for, like they’re really feeling each other out. He doesn’t give Ghost a reason to transition into the flipping-Soap-onto-his-back part of the evening.
Once Simon’s thoroughly kissed open, Soap pulls back for a second. Ghost looks less pissed, which is a start, and he’s doing that disarming thing where he gives Soap so much undivided attention it makes his body vibrate a little to be the recipient of it.
“Can I have a go tonight?” Soap asks, because if he’s got all that attention he might as well take advantage of it. And they both aren’t the type to wait for the stars to align before they take what they want. Hell, ninety percent of their initial courting period took place over comms while Soap was bleeding out in the rain, unarmed in enemy territory.
“What?” Ghost’s eyes snap back into focus. Because he wasn’t giving Soap his attention to hear him talk; he was giving him a type of put-on-a-pedestal attention. The kind of attention that almost feels undeserved each night until Ghost’s heavy and clinging in his arms after sex.
It’s only been a few months, but Soap’s pretty sure he has Ghost all figured out. And his lieutenant has the kind of miles high emotional walls one would expect from someone who wears a skull mask in public and gives names to his favorite knives.
“Can I fuck you, sir?”
Ghost levels his stare at Soap behind the mask for a few beats, and then he says, “No.”
“C’mon, Lt,” Soap says, dropping his voice, humming it like a plea, or a prayer. He’s not above begging, not with Simon. And, truth be told, it often goes a long way towards tearing down those emotional walls. “It’ll be fun.”
“Fucking you is already fun,” Ghost says, and Soap snorts.
“Yeah, well. You know what they say about variety.”
“No, I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”
Soap genuinely huffs a laugh—classic Ghost catching him off guard with that deadpan humor—and Ghost attempts to use his moment of vulnerability to do the flipping-him-onto-his-back thing. Since Soap’s half-expecting it, instead they just mutually seize shoulders and glare at each other.
Well, Ghost is glaring. Soap’s kinda having fun, now, and he’s having a hard time keeping that fact off his face. If the worst possible conclusion is Ghost overpowering him out of spite—Soap’s not afraid to push this farther.
He can feel the guitar string tension of muscle between them, and he grimaces and squeezes Ghost’s biceps, tightens his thighs around his hips to brace himself from being strong-armed. It works…but barely. The struggle between them is palpable and rigid and it reminds Soap of wrestling matches in high school. He had an easier time not getting hard as fuck over those.
He can respect that his lieutenant requires a show of physical dominance before he gives it up, though.
“You a virgin?” Soap asks, going for a different angle, pretending that they’re not half-fighting each other on the tiny bed.
“Obviously not.”
“I mean: have you never taken it in the arse?”
“I have.”
“Well, see,” Soap says, furrowing his brow for affect. “Doesn’t seem fair that some other guy’s gotta see you that way but I don’t get to.”
“Fair has nothing to do with it, Johnny,” Ghost says, but Soap’s pretty sure he’s cracked him a bit because his upper lip twitches and he stops struggling. Which is good, because Soap probably only had a few more seconds of fight left in him. His lieutenant is fucking strong. Stronger than Soap, for sure, especially with those monstrous thighs of his.
The thought makes Soap lick his lips and wonder if that means Ghost is truly giving into him. As he should.
“Promise I’ll make it good for ye,” Soap says, ducking his head down and nuzzling into Ghost’s neck, trying to radiate subservience, communicate that Simon will still have control or power or whatever it is he’s so worried about losing. As if Soap could steal any of those things just by getting inside him. “Might be nice to have someone take care of you for once.”
He will, too. Even though Soap’s got a whole laundry list of filthy fantasies about Ghost and the positions he’d like to put him in. He often finds himself wondering if he’s strong enough to hook Simon’s thighs on his arms so he can fuck him up on the wall. Or if he could restrain his wrists behind his back and shove his face into the pillows to keep him quiet.
But he’d make it good for him this first time. In the bed. On his back and comfortable. Real romantic like.
And again…quiet. They have to be quiet all the time in the barracks or risk getting caught and facing dishonourable discharge for fraternization, or whatever Ghost keeps warning him about. Soap hates the sneaking around as much as he finds it disturbingly hot.
Soap pulls back and sizes up his lieutenant with a look he hopes comes across as innocent. Ghost looks good on the bed under him, still in most of his clothes except that his mask is pushed up over his nose and his cargos are unbuttoned, shirt rucked up above them. He’s hard in his gray boxers already which is…a good sign.
Ghost clearly isn’t turned off by the idea of Soap fucking him. His hesitance is wrapped up in all those pesky emotional walls Soap so profoundly enjoys razing down.
“Simon,” he says, because Ghost hasn’t responded yet.
“Johnny.” Ghost’s eyes are piercing, challenging, and Soap almost can’t meet his gaze.
He’s getting in Soap’s head, now. Can’t have that.
He’ll have to trust that Ghost will stop him if it becomes too much. And, vitally, that Soap hasn’t been too much for Ghost yet.
He hooks his fingers on Ghost’s belt loops and eases his cargos off his hips, boxers coming along easy. His fat cock rests on his stomach and it’s, momentarily, tempting to forgo this experiment and just slick himself up and sit on it. Soap wasn’t much into getting railed before, but Simon fucks ruthlessly, like it’s the only thing that matters.
Soap isn’t sure how he fucks, but he’s never had any complaints. He’s hoping to keep that streak going tonight.
“Knees up, Lt,” Soap says. The order feels foreign on his tongue, and it stirs something in his stomach when Ghost follows it. Like he’s in a trance, Soap presses on the back of his thighs to get a better look and it makes him a little dizzy. “Fuck.”
“Everything alright, Sergeant?” Ghost asks. He seems to be putting on an air of detachment, as if the fact that he isn’t getting his way for once necessitates emotional distance.
It’s as endearing as it is utter bullshit. Soap knows all too well what true ambivalence looks like, and Ghost isn’t fooling him.
Soap pretends to ignore him and spits on his fingers. His mouth is watering like hell, so he has no trouble there. He keeps one hand steady on the back of Ghost’s left thigh and he rubs saliva around his hole with the other.
Not a virgin, no, he wasn’t lying about that. But the muscle here is coiled tight. And Soap promised he’d take care of him.
He retracts his fingers and spits on them more. Before he can overthink it, he presses the pads of two inside his lieutenant. When Ghost barely reacts, he shoves them to the knuckle.
Ghost does react to that, squaring his jaw and exhaling hard. It’s not as much as Soap reacts to him reacting, but it’s a bloody start, okay?
“Fuck,” Soap says, dragging out the vowel, curling his fingers inside him. “Bet that feels good, yeah?”
“Sod off,” Ghost says, quick, like he can’t open his mouth for too long. Soap bullies in another finger alongside the first two, and Ghost presses his head back to the pillow and actually rocks his hips down when Soap starts fucking him on them.
…Hell’s fucking bells. Soap’s gonna nut before he even gets inside him.
It’s a legitimate concern, too. Simon usually gets Soap to go off at least twice before he comes himself. He’s got a devastating level of stamina comparatively, is what Soap’s admitting, and he’d really like to keep pounding Ghost once he starts and not get side-tracked by a recharge period.
Ghost huffs a quiet sound and Soap’s eyes snap to his lieutenant’s pretty mouth.
He’s never really gotten proper head from Ghost. He’s given it, that’s for sure, because Ghost’s a selfish bastard and Soap’s pretty sure his favorite place to get off is down Soap’s throat. But whenever Ghost gets between his legs he treats it like foreplay, quick and efficient about it.
Soap’s got the right amount of balls to remedy that tonight. He’s gonna get sucked off as long as he wants and he’s gonna come down Ghost’s throat and then he’s gonna have all the stamina he needs to fuck him like he deserves. Problem solved.
Soap withdraws his fingers, strips his own cargos off, and mounts Simon’s chest before he can protest. Ghost just stares up at Soap behind the mask. Almost lazily. Like he’s still pretending this whole ordeal is unimpressive. Bastard.
Soap frees his cock from the slit in his boxers with a sigh and holds it above Simon’s face, his thighs framing his shoulders, trapping his arms down.
Lazy and unimpressed, without a doubt. But there’s something else in Ghost’s stare—frustration or impatience or barely contained rage or something entirely unplaceable—that sends a shiver through Soap’s body. Like not only would it be supremely embarrassing to not take control of this situation to his lieutenant’s satisfaction, but he might get punished later in a way that he finds less fun and more gruesome.
“MacTavish,” Ghost says, in that deadpan. “What are you waiting for?”
His affected disinterest is also, devastatingly, sort of doing it for Soap. Sue him for wanting what he can’t have. And for wanting to wreck Ghost so thoroughly it forces him to be interested.
His cock twitches at the thought, at the indifferent stare that’s currently got him frozen, and pre-cum drools and coalesces and drips onto Simon’s cheek. Jesus fucking Christ.
Soap palms Ghost’s throat with his free hand and presses the head of his cock to his plush lips, and Ghost opens up for him easy. He slides half inside his mouth and ruts against the texture of his hard palette until Soap’s brain starts to feel like a TV left on static.
By some charitable act of God, Soap manages, “Go ahead, sir. It’s about time ye put that pretty mouth of yours to good use.” He can’t believe his voice doesn’t waver. And by the way Ghost pauses for a second, he’s pretty sure he can’t either.
Then Ghost pulls off Soap’s dick before sliding back down it—entirely, now, all at once—and repeating. He sucks Soap off hands-free like it’s his job, does it with as much intensity as he does most things, as if he wants to consume Soap whole and leave him for dead.
Once he’s going for it, though, the eye contact stops. Suddenly, Ghost is looking everywhere but Soap. He’s looking down, fixated on the task, or he’s looking to the sides as if there’s something more important going on in the room than having his Sergeant’s dick in his throat.
Soap, however, has never been more hyper fixated in his life. He can’t stop staring at his lieutenant. He can’t stop staring at the way his head lifts off the pillow and his cheeks hollow out and his lips stretch open. At the way he exhales short and rapidly when he takes Soap all the way down his throat and it chokes off his oxygen. The way Soap’s pre-cum and Ghost’s saliva mix and shine on his cheek and nose and chin in the dim light of the room.
So he also catches the one, brief second that Ghost’s eyes flicker up to his…and then quickly avert. Like he’s bloody embarrassed. Finally, an emotion Soap can work with.
Soap cups Simon’s jaw and caresses under his chin and says, a bit breathless, “Eyes on me. Fuck, ye look good with my cock in your mouth.”
Ghost slowly turns the full force of his stare back up to Soap’s, and Soap practically regrets the request. Because now he’s giving him some of the most enthusiastic head of his life and tearing him down with that piercing gaze.
But Soap doesn’t back down. He cradles Simon’s chin with one hand and says, so low it feels reverent, “That’s it, sir. Good man. M’close already. Need ye to finish me off like this so I can fuck you proper after.”
It’s not like Ghost is some expert at giving blowjobs—clearly, he’s more of an expert at getting them, the cheeky bastard—but between his eyes and the vise of his throat and his insistence on winning whatever interaction he throws himself into…it doesn’t take long.
Soap holds down Simon’s throat with one hand when he shoots his cum into it. He tries to pull out after, but Ghost sucks him even harder. He pins him with that gaze and milks every drop until Soap’s legs are shaking from overstimulation and his eyes can barely stay open.
“Jesus H. Christ, Simon,” he says when he finally frees his cock, soft and spent and resting against Ghost’s cheek.
“Had enough, Sergeant?” Ghost has the balls to ask. Even trapped under Soap’s thighs, face messy with spit and cum, his lieutenant projects effortless control again.
It stirs something hot in Soap’s chest. Something that feels like inadequacy. Like Soap’s dropping the ball here, disappointing himself and more importantly his lieutenant.
But no—he saw the way Ghost couldn’t keep eye contact when he was deep throating his cock at first. Saw the way his eyes rolled back when Soap opened him up on his fingers. The cloying way he conceded to this as soon as Soap mentioned it wasn’t fair that other guys had seen him like this.
All the pieces of the puzzle that make up Simon and his bloody emotional walls are laid out for Soap’s deployment. It’s just that every time he lets his guard down for a second, his lieutenant scatters them incomprehensible.
So Soap doesn’t take the bait. He doesn’t bother responding. He does what his superior would do when faced with a stupid question: ignore and punish accordingly.
He dismounts Ghost’s chest and gets between his legs again, laying out on his stomach, pressing on the backs of his thighs to expose him until he grunts in protest. Ghost’s hard and leaking and untouched, but Soap doesn’t go near his cock. No, that would be too nice.
Instead, he laves his hole with his tongue. His mouth is still watering for it, so eager to undo Simon, so he leaves him slick and wet with just a few swipes. Then he dives in, licking him open, fucking him on his tongue to get him dripping and ready to be fucked from the inside, too.
“Tastes so fucking good, sir,” he says, between licks.
“Shut the fuck up, Johnny,” Ghost says. Manages, really. Soap barely staves off a grin…and then he really falls into it.
When Soap gets his mouth busy, whether it’s like this or with a heavy cock in his mouth, his mind goes nice and empty. Oral fixation, Ghost accuses him of having, but Soap doesn’t really care to pathologize it. It’s just nice to be focused on something so wholly his brain feels like a blank canvas, and to hear the results of his work panted and gasped and groaned across it.
“Christ.” Ghost’s muscles clench under Soap’s hands, like he’s trying to move. Whether that’s closer or farther away, he can’t quite tell. “Bloody tease.”
Ghost often mistakes Soap’s wet-mouthed reverence for teasing. For something less whole and devoted than it is. Soap doesn’t mind that he’s got that card up his sleeve, that he has something to hold over his calculated superior. Because he knows his feelings are as exploitable as they are sacred.
Once Ghost’s muffled sounds reach a sufficient pitch, Soap reaches around his arse and pries open his hole with both thumbs, spits heavy inside him a few times. Ghost doesn’t like to use lube when he fucks him, so Soap doesn’t see why he should treat him any different.
He sits up on his knees, slowly. Ghost’s lips are parted and there’s a sheen of pink across his visible features. It makes Soap’s heart swell and his stomach flip over, but it’s still not enough.
“Mask off, sir,” Soap says. He spits in his palm and strokes himself. He’s fully hard again from worshipping between Ghost’s thighs.
Ghost’s lip twitches, like he’s going to refuse. But then—and Soap’s thanking bloody Jesus before it even happens—he huffs and silently tugs it off.
Simon’s hair is disheveled, and he’s flushed, and his eyes are doing that won’t-make-contact thing again. He’s fucking beautiful, and Soap’s breath catches in his throat with every compliment he wants to shower him with.
If he can just commit to concealing his own emotions a little longer, he won’t disappoint his lieutenant.
The bed is too small to fuck him proper in missionary, so he does what Ghost always does and steps off the bed on one leg, his other folded on the mattress for leverage, and tugs Ghost down until his cock is nestled up against his arse.
Then, because the only thing that’s kept Simon’s disinterest at bay so far is unbridled dedication to being a bastard, Soap breaks into him in one, fluid, brutal thrust.
“Fucking hell—” Ghost twists on the bed and tightens up so much Soap growls in pain. He stays buried deep, impatiently tracking every emotion playing out on his lieutenant’s oft-unreadable face.
“Gotta relax for me, Lt,” Soap says. His voice is coming out a little rough, a little mean, a little self-righteous, and he can’t bring himself to stop. “Ain’t gonna work otherwise.”
Ghost notably doesn’t relax right away. When Soap starts to withdraw, Ghost grinds his teeth and clamps down on him and Soap groans. It feels like Ghost is asphyxiating his fucking cock.
“I mean it, sir.” He leans forward and smooths his hands over Ghost’s sinewy ribcage. He’s tense everywhere, muscle coiled. “You’re so tight I can’t even fuck ye.”
“You just shoved it in there like—”
“Had to get your attention, didn’t I?” Soap doesn’t want to let Ghost finish his sentences. “Smug bastard, acting like you were unaffected by all this. By me. Why won’t you open up for me, huh?”
For a second, Ghost looks so pissed off Soap is pretty sure this experiment is about to be bodily halted and he’s going to get his arse destroyed in retaliation.
And then, with a shakily exhaled breath, Ghost’s expression starts to soften. He unclenches his fists. He slackens his abdomen. And, most importantly, he stops choking the life out of Soap’s cock.
“That’s it,” Soap says, his own voice turning softer in response. “There we go, Simon. You know you can trust me to make you feel good.”
Ghost steadies his breath, relaxes further, and then—almost imperceptibly—nods.
Soap doesn’t need any more direction than that from his lieutenant.
The first time Soap pulls out and thrusts his hips forward in earnest, Simon actually moans. It’s quiet and breathy but he bloody moans for it and both Soap’s brain and dick throb in response. He withdraws and snaps forward again a few times, holding Ghost’s hips, memorizing the scars on his face twisting in pleasure.
Then he remembers that they’re in the barracks. And Ghost trusts him. And since Soap’s taking responsibility for him, it’s also his responsibility to keep them both quiet.
So Soap drops down while he fucks him and collapses into a kiss, swallowing up every little choked off moan, licking up every sound, letting his lieutenant make all the noise he wants.
Soap doesn’t want anyone else to hear Ghost not only because of what they stand to lose, but because they’re his sounds to hear. He’s the one making Ghost lose his mind on his dick so he’s the only one who gets to reap the benefits.
He breaks the kiss and covers Ghost’s mouth loosely with his palm and licks at Ghost’s chin, under his neck. He tastes clean from their post-training showers, but there’s his distinct musk and sweat underneath it. Soap wants to suck his tender skin between his teeth and bite into flesh and leave him with marks to reckon with. He wants tangible proof that Ghost wants this—wants him—to touch and kiss and stare at during missions. He wants everyone to know they belong to each other as much as he wants to keep their secret wholly to himself.
“Harder, Johnny,” Ghost says, suddenly and muffled as he nips at and growls into his palm. Pressed this close, Soap doesn’t have the leverage to fuck him as deep as he was before. But he almost prefers that, getting to rock his hips slow, drag out every second of this actual fucking miracle.
“Are you listening?” Ghost asks, when Soap takes his palm off his mouth. He actually sounds kind of pissed that Soap’s taking his time, impatient bastard, so Soap plays the defensive with raw honesty.
“Distracted by how good you feel,” Soap says, and sure enough Ghost’s eyes avert. Soap sits up again, drives deeper into his lieutenant. “Can ye stay quiet?” he asks, but Ghost’s already sinking his teeth into his own hand and swearing at him to get on with it. Steamin’ bloody Jesus.
The most dangerous man in the 141, maybe in the whole free fuckin’ world, tamed and sated and groaning for Soap’s cock. In the short time they’ve known each other, he’s watched Ghost knife hundreds of people dead. He’s watched him headshot a dozen more and otherwise incapacitate countless others.
And Ghost trusts him—and no one bloody else—to fuck him into a quivering mess.
Tearing down those walls has never been more gratifying than right now. Soap’s cup has runneth fucking over.
Sometimes there’s an instinctive jolt, a flinch in Simon’s mannerisms when Soap bears down too hard. Like he’s got this deep-boiled urge to tackle Soap down and take the control back from him that he just can’t shake, like he’s a wolf Soap’s caught in a trap. But every time his eyes harden or his muscles shudder, Soap just hits him with a feels so good or a taking me so well or a full-throated stay down, sir, and Ghost relaxes back into it.
“Easy, Lt,” he says, when Simon shudders this time, squeezing his hips, his meaty thighs, groaning for how the hardened muscle feels under his skin. Ghost could stop this at any time, big strong fucker that he is, but he’s not. Because he trusts Soap. Because Soap’s taking good care of him. He’s the luckiest man alive. “That’s it. Good man. Fuck, you feel incredible.”
“Gonna ruin you next time Johnny,” Ghost says, but there’s little fight left in his voice. Without the mask, there’s nothing to keep Soap from tracking every flush and tick and tremor across his pretty face. He only drags his eyes away from Ghost’s face to indulge in watching his cock split him open, over and over, on the small bed. He pulls out entirely just to stuff him full again, to watch Simon accommodate him.
“Course you will, sir,” Soap says with a grin and doubles down, hitching up Ghost’s thighs, fucking relentlessly into the tight heat of him. Tightest Soap’s ever fuckin’ had, go figure. “Whatever you want. Anything for you. Keep quiet for me, though…wouldn’t want this to be how we get caught, huh?”
The idea of anyone in the 141 catching them like this, Soap wrecking his superior so well the fight has gone out of him, makes him groan, lean over him, fall deeper into every thrust. He grits his teeth and turns his thoughts to cold showers and cheap tequila and tries to hold on longer for his lieutenant. He wants him to come on his cock more than he’s wanted anything in his life.
“Fuck—could you cum like this?” Soap asks.
“Never have,” Ghost says. But he’s rock hard, leaking pre-cum, steeling his jaw with every thrust. Yeah, Soap’s not touching his cock unless he begs him to.
Soap loses track of how much or how little control he maintains over the situation, then. Embarrassing that he’s got Ghost practically whimpering on his cock but Soap’s still the one going fuzzy at the edges, mentally broken from how good it feels, dipping into that heady mind space that makes his body move on autopilot. He hikes one of Ghost’s legs over the crook of his elbow and fucks him hard—fast and desperate and seeking to please. He knows he’s doing something right because of the way Simon groans into his hand and squirms for it, cock twitching on his stomach.
He’s wanted this so long it’s not hard to keep his pace. He pounds into Ghost, shallow, aiming for that spot that turns his muffled grunting into something desperate. Ghost’s balls draw tight, his cock visibly pulsing as it bobs heavy and full on his stomach.
“There we fuckin’ go,” Soap says, breathless. He’s blissed out, cock right where it belongs stuffing Simon full, privy to his every private reaction. What’s hotter than the fantasy of being caught is the fact that no one else will ever see Simon like this. “C’mon sir. Let go for me.”
Once more, Ghost falls in line to Soap’s command. He bites into his hand and tilts his head back on the pillow and cums untouched for Soap, groaning ruinously through grit teeth and spurting all over the hard planes of his lower stomach, messing his rucked-up shirt.
Soap is pretty sure he could get sniped in the head tomorrow and he’d die happy. He stifles a moan into his forearm and drives the deepest and fastest yet into him, eager to chase his lieutenant down.
“Fucking hell,” Ghost manages between thrusts, clearly overstimulated. “Easy, Johnny—"
Soap’s so overcome with the sight and smell and feel of Simon that he can’t respond but to keep fucking him, his body all-over warm and his mind sinking dangerously close to blankness again. He’s snapping his hips so hard now he’s losing rhythm, fingers digging bruises into Ghost’s hipbones.
“Fuck, Simon—"
Soap nearly breaks his lip open with his teeth trying not to lose it over how good it feels to let go, to buck his hips until he’s weak and spent, to fill his lieutenant up deep with his cum. Ghost takes it all, those eyes sizing him up under heavy lashes as Soap claims what’s his inside and out for the first time.
He drops his weight on Ghost after, tucks his ear to his chest to feel his heartbeat. Ghost cards his hands through his buzzcut, scratching behind his ears the way he likes it as he catches his breath. It’s their business alone that Soap whines a little for it, immediately feeling soft and overwhelmed in the aftermath even though he was the one who got to fuck Simon so well he came untouched.
Ghost doesn’t rush him, even though he’s always been the impatient one. He lets Soap stay inside him as he softens and their heartbeats steady out. And despite the fact that Soap prides himself on being easy-going, he finds himself getting nervous about what Ghost will say about his performance, because Soap’s pretty sure if he can’t have Simon like this again he’ll vibrate out of existence.
When Soap finally lifts his head to get his lieutenant’s approval, though, he finds Ghost passed out. Proper passed out: eyes shut, chest heaving, boneless. Exposed and vulnerable and fucked into walls-torn-down unconsciousness. Blessed with a kind of transcendental relaxation that he’s never seen on Simon after he tops. Poor bastard.
Soap grins and rises with reinvigorated purpose and grabs a towel to clean up his sleeping superior. He turns the lights off and checks the lock on the door and makes sure their alarms are set so he can get out early enough in the morning to avoid raising suspicion. It’s the stuff he’d usually watch Ghost do, and he’s got to take full responsibility, after all.
When he tucks back into bed, Simon comes out of unconsciousness long enough to roll over and pull Soap tight to his chest. He presses his face into Soap’s hair and breathes him in, and Soap falls asleep knowing fully well he hasn’t disappointed his lieutenant.