Chapter Text
DAY -1
It was supposed to be a simple, by-the-book recon mission.
The target was a cell of witches carelessly flooding the streets with a memory altering elixir that left the majority of its users irreversibly blind. Worse, though, was a variation on a love potion that’s left several dozen people dead - every day, more and more cases were being discovered, the numbers growing at an alarming rate - by the hands of the very people they sought to drug and force a reciprocation of romantic feelings onto. Each time, the “murderer“ reported a moment of dizziness followed by an uncontrollable sense of paranoid jealousy and rage that only abated once the subject of their sudden regard was dead.
Each death was more brutal than the last.
Some very messy, fucked up shit for sure but nothing Soap hasn't ever come across before. The pool from which humans source their breathtaking ease with which to commit atrocities against others is fathomless, neverending.
The objective was simple; stake out various locations around Fort Williams and Ben Nevis, log the comings and goings of any known or unknown subjects, identify possible suppliers and distributors, and report their findings once they regrouped.
Everything goes without a hitch at first.
Soap double checks his supplies and weapons. Checks in one last time with the rest of theF team he's been temporarily assigned to and heads out.
The trek up to the CIC hut - one of half a dozen possible locations for where production is taking place - is interminable but offers gorgeous views of Glen Nevis and Lochan Meall an t-Suidhe and Steall Waterfall. Behind him, the town of Fort William sprawls out between the foot of Ben Nevis and the shores of Loch Linnhe.
Sometime in the future, Soap wants to come back and spend a whole day reproducing the gorgeous vistas with gouache or colored pencil. Whatever strikes his fancy.
Further plans will have to be put on the back burner because, in the distance, he spots the hut.
With night quickly falling, he hurries to find a decent spot to hunker down in. An outcropping of granite about 200 feet from the hut does the trick.
With his scope and recording equipment set up, and other necessities within easy reach, Soap settles in for hours of doing nothing but staring at - what all signs point to currently being - an empty building.
Soap has a lot of random body parts going numb from staying stationary too long and packs of his fourth favorite MREs to look forward to in the coming hours.
It's maybe an hour in, when night has truly settled around him, that he spots movement at the hut. The door opens, pouring out a stream of fluorescent light, as an unknown man steps out into the night. Soap frowns and double checks the windows because, until this point, he was convinced he was the only living soul within a mile of his location. Enhancing the picture only confirms the lack of blinds or curtains. Nothing but darkness beyond the window panels.
A cloaking spell of some kind, most likely overlaid with one to silence the goings-on inside. Smart.
If not for whatever asshole decided to take a night time stroll or quick piss, thus breaking the seal of the cloaking, Soap probably never would’ve known anyone was there. Had already been there who-knows how long.
One moment Soap is busy making sure he's capturing all the movements beyond the wide open door and the next, there's a crackling sound and he's hastily rolling out of the way with a yelp as chunks of granite fall onto where he was positioned.
He's on his feet, aiming his gun and pulling the trigger before the sound of tumbling rocks stops. His would-be assailant goes down with a flash of electric blue and a cut-off cry.
People pour out of the building, voices raised and hands glowing a sickly orange with ill intent, and Soap doesn't wait around for them to catch sight of him. He runs back the way he originally came, ears straining for any sounds of pursuit. Hears a shout too-short of a time later and knows he's been spotted.
The waning crescent moon doesn't offer much light by which to see where he's putting his feet so by the time the sound of cascading water reaches his ears, he's covered in a multitude of scrapes and bruises and almost dropped his gun a solid seven times.
Soap doesn't know how long he's been running but he can't keep going full tilt as he's been for however long now. He's reaching dangerous levels of exhaustion, limbs trembling. His chest is tight and he's got a stitch on his right side.
He was praying they would give up on chasing him for a while back, somewhere are the lochan. Instead, it only seems like they're steadily gaining on him while he slows with every passing second.
Soap has either drastically overestimated his level of fitness or they’re using their powers to give themselves an unfair advantage.
Fire along his left side has him stumbling with a grunt of pain. Some fucker got him right where his tac vest ends. A lucky shot that pisses Soap off enough he's willing to waste precious seconds returning fire. Grim satisfaction fills him when two witches drop and the others - easily a dozen, fuck - scatter to find cover. It's wiped away a moment later when he has to duck behind a squat boulder to avoid having a chunk of his face blown off by a haphazardly thrown incantation.
Soap rarely regrets being a baseline human in a world full of fairytale archetypes come to life but moments like this - where he's outnumbered, injured, nothing to defend himself with but what was strapped to his body when shit went downhill - he wishes he'd gotten one of the enhancements the Ministry of Defence’s elite S.W.A.N. branch offers to any enlisted willing (some would say desperate) enough to put themselves through the excruciating pain of having their bodies altered at the molecular level. The fact that the mortality rate is a staggering 76% doesn't seem to be a deterrent, either.
It was a curiosity that he’d briefly entertained before putting his mind to what really mattered and the main reason for joining the army: making things go BOOM as big and as loud as possible from a safe - but not too safe - distance.
This mission is an aberration with no need for an EOD Specialist, but they needed another body and Soap knows how to sit in one place and pay attention just as well as anyone else. So, he volunteered to tag along.
And look where that's got him: being shot at, panting like a racehorse, soaked in sweat, while blood pours out of his side, one measly gun with limited ammunition and a couple of knives for protection, and a tac vest full of first aid supplies and two precious explosive hex bags he grabbed at the last minute.
Fuck everything.
Using the brief reprieve he's bought himself, Soap contemplates his very limited options.
He could stay where he is, hope he makes a kill shot without wasting any bullets, take down maybe half because it's dark and his NV goggles got pulverized, get overtaken by the remaining witches, and die a very painful death.
Or, seeing as Steall is off in the near-ish distance, he can make a desperate run for it and probably reach the base where the dark, looming shapes of trees promise a modicum of safety. If he makes it into the trees, the climb will be long but not impossible, the incline not being very steep. More importantly, it's covered in trees and shrubbery all the way up.
It's a real Sophie's Choice.
Knowing he doesn't have time to dawdle - chips of granite are raining down on him with every spell thrown at his temporary cover, angry shouts and incantations growing progressively closer - he waits for the next lull in attacks before carefully crushes the contents of one hex bag to activate it and sets it on the ground next to him. The mental countdown begins.
With a deep breath and quick prayer to whichever deity might be feeling merciful tonight, he jumps to his feet and takes a couple of shots to scatter the witches.
Then, Soap runs like his life depends on it.
There's more angry shouting and a ball of neon green, no bigger than a golf ball, shoots past him, missing him by a foot at most. It impacts the ground in front of him and immediately starts eating through the grass and dirt. He swerves to avoid putting a foot anywhere near the slowly widening hole.
6…
5…
4…
3…
2…
1…
A flash of white light that illuminates the surroundings like it's midday followed by a resounding boom as the hex bag goes off and the furious bellowing turns to cries of pain.
He doesn't turn to check how many could be injured or dead, no matter how tempted he is.
As the yelling recedes, Soap feels a new burst of energy course through his exhausted body. Up ahead, maybe 40 feet, is a small grove of trees and right beyond it, the base of the waterfall.
Just a little more.
He's a few steps past the beginning of the grove when an enraged cry of something indecipherable rises up behind him and a searing pain shoots through his right leg, radiating out from his thigh. His legs collapse instantly and he goes down with a bitten back yelp.
Soap lays there in a gasping heap, pebbles digging into the sweaty skin of his cheek. Blood roars in his ears and spots dance in his vision. His leg feels like someone flayed it open and began playing guitar with his sciatic nerve. It's a pain he's never experienced before; no burn, no knife wound, no gunshot could ever compare to what he's currently feeling.
Tears leak from his eyes unchecked.
Trying to move is an agonizing ordeal and he only makes it up to his forearms before collapsing once more.
This is it, then. This is how he dies. Face down on the ground, bleeding out from his leg, body racked by a throbbing pain he's sure must be amplified by some magical component because this isn't anywhere near what he's experienced before.
Maybe he can take one or two more of these fuckheads out before they get to him. Yeah, he's not going to give them the satisfaction of just laying there, helpless, waiting to be offed like some wounded animal. Now, if only he hadn't dropped his fucking gun like some fucking rookie-
A clap of thunder interrupts his mental diatribe. Great. Just fucking perfect. Exactly what he needed, to take his last stand - ha! - while getting pelted with rain.
The wind picks up, drying the sweat on the back of his neck and rustling the trees. It's a nice reprieve. Not far off - too close, too bloody close - he hears someone exclaim in surprise before several more voices raise in confusion.
Soap frowns, confused himself. What the hell's going on now? He tries to flip over but his body rebels against the movement, agony shooting up his spine from his thigh. With a grunt, he resigns himself to his continued ignorance.
The wind picks up. He hears what he's pretty sure are branches snapping and crashing to the ground.
It takes more effort than it's worth to watch the grass inches from his face sway erratically so he goes into the urge to close them. He was getting dizzy anyway.
The earth suddenly trembling has his eyes snapping back open. The wind’s stopped.
There's a hush for one, two, three seconds before cries of terror cut through the night. Almost immediately, though, a sound like the earth splitting open drowns everything else out. It's followed by a whoosh, like all the air being sucked out of a room.
Through eyes long gone unfocused, Soap watches the world around him light up in warm tones of orange and yellow.
The light recedes until it flickers vaguely. Something sounds like it's crackling. The smell of smoke fills his nose. It brings to mind sitting in front of a lit fireplace in the depths of winter.
The ground trembles and what sounds like a giant’s footsteps grow closer. Soap can do nothing but lay there hapless and helpless and hopeless. His fingers twitch at his sides, the most he's capable of.
Something blots out all the meager light, leaving him in near total darkness. A gust of sweltering air rushes over his back and he shudders at the unknown.
He sees a shadow move in his peripheral before he's being scooped up. He shouts and more tears flood his fluttering eyes, nerves pinging with overwhelming pain. Bile rises up the back of his throat and he has to swallow over and over to keep from throwing up. His ears ring with a high-pitched frequency and his awareness slip-slides sideways.
The wind picks up again.
The last thing Soap sees before darkness envelops him is the ground falling away.
—
There are brief flashes:
Something soft under his cheek.
Hands moving him.
Cool water trickling into his parched mouth.
A low, rough voice assuring him that, “you're safe now, I'll take care of you.”
(He definitely hallucinates hearing that same voice call him mate, pretty mate, small mate. )
A gentle touch to his forehead, his cheek, his chest.
But above everything there's the pain.
It crashes over him like a cresting wave of sharp-edged knives and white phosphorus, dragging him under with greedy claws digging into his mind until he surrenders to the awaiting oblivion, if only for a moment of reprieve.
—
DAY 0
One second Soap is cradled in the velvet abyss of unconsciousness and the next, his eyes are shooting open, full awareness flooding his mind.
The first thing he notices is that the ceiling above him is made out of some kind of rock.
The second is that he's laying in a pile of something soft and warm
The third and, arguably, most important thing is that while he feels pain, it's dull. More the ache of sore muscles than the agony of getting hit by some unknown projectile and/or spell.
And the last, which has him scrambling to sit up with a groan - slowly, joints hesitant to bend and limbs protesting each movement - is the fact that the only thing he's wearing are a pair of sweats too big to be his own. A peek under the waistband confirms that he's not wearing his briefs.
Soap doesn't know how to feel about that.
That can wait for later contemplation though, as he takes stock of himself.
He's surprisingly clean of sweat and blood and dirt, including under his nails, which he forgets about more often than not. His scrapes and scratches are tender-pink with healing skin, bruises mottling yellow-green. There's a bandage neatly taped along his left side. A bit of wiggling and grunting reveals his right thigh to also be expertly wrapped in fresh gauze.
Inspection of his body completed, Soap turns his attention to carefully inspecting his surroundings. A pile of furs act as his bed and protection from the stone floor. The walls are roughly hewn from an identical stone. There’s a hole in the sloping ceiling that lets in a decent amount of sunlight. A brazier with smoldering embers offers the only other possible source of light once night falls, he figures. There's a shadowed entranceway across from his pile of furs.
That's all for the room - cave? - he's found himself in. Nothing to hint at his location or savior - captor? - or how long he's been here.
With a grunt of effort, Soap gets to his feet. He gives himself a moment to let the wooziness of a head rush pass before taking his first mincing steps. He only wobbles once, which he's proud of. The pain in his thigh is manageable. It doesn't feel like he was recently injured, which he can't complain about.
He wishes viscerally for a weapon of some kind as he approaches the entranceway and sees how dark the passage beyond it is. Thick shadows waver and lengthen under the low flames of two braziers, one right outside his room and the other further down where the passage curves a little to the right. There's warm light emanating from around the corner. A possible exit?
Taking his chances with the unknown, Soap begins a slow, careful shuffle through the darkness. It takes him longer than he wants to admit to reach the bend and pass into what turns out to be a large cavern. His thigh aches a little more sharply from use.
Soap freezes, gobsmacked at the sight that greets him. He rubs his eyes, sure he must be hallucinating what's before him. Or maybe he's still sleeping, mind frolicking through a dream?
No amount of rubbing or blinking his eyes changes what he's seeing, though. He takes a cautious step forward and slowly makes his way through the cavern, mouth agape and head on a swivel.
Piles upon piles of riches as far as he can see. A heap of gold silver coins twice as tall and three times wider than him. A teetering pile of gold chalices and cups that look ready to topple over. Gems of every size and shape and color imaginable that he can't help but stop and stare dumbly at them all. A section of the stone wall has been roughly carved into shelves from floor to shadowy ceiling, stuffed with leather-bound books. Other parts of the stone walls have been carved into rudimentary hooks from which necklaces hang on display.
Everything glitters under the light provided by a wide rend in the center of the soaring ceiling.
Around the corner of an even taller and wider pile of gold coins, his steps falter and stop. “What.” He says to the treasures surrounding him.
Incongruously, standing out like a sore thumb against the abundance of riches in the cave, is a pile of masks. All sorts of them. Medical masks and Halloween masks and hazmat masks and gas masks. Just, all the masks imaginable.
More confused than ever, Soap limps around it to continue his inspection. The pain in his thigh is gradually becoming more noticeable.
His eyes skip over a giant mound of black and white stones stacked against the side of the cavern, instead taking in a stack of furs. He wanders closer to them, running his hands over the softness. It's the only thing he's dared to touch so far.
A rumbling noise behind him makes Soap freeze, heart pounding erratically against his ribs. He stares blindly at his own hands.
The noise comes again, accompanied by something scraping against the floor.
Fear makes him tremble but he forces himself to push it back and slowly turns towards the sound of something large shifting.
At first, Soap can't tell what he's really looking at. A giant pile of boulders made of volcanic rock with white striations that takes up about a third of the space in the cavern. Impressive but nothing unusual.
But it's just that they're moving. Slowly but surely shifting and unfurling and rising higher and higher until his neck is craning back as much as it can and Soap hopes with all his might that he’s dreaming, that this is some fantastical adventure his unconscious mind is taking him on as he sleeps soundly in his own bed.
Because looming menacingly above him like a creature birthed from nightmares is a fucking dragon. It's mostly pitch black with iridescent white scales in a distinctly skeletal pattern that begins at its face and runs the length of its body. Macabre is the only word that could describe it accurately. Matte black horns curve forward over its brow and wicked looking spines run down its neck to the tip of its mace-like tail. Huge wings fold close to its back and drag across the ground. Talons dig divots into the stone as it shifts its considerable weight and Soap feels faint just thinking about how easily one of those things could gut him. As easy as a hot knife through butter, most likely.
Eyes the color of molten gold watch him keenly, slit pupils gradually widening the longer the seconds drag on in stifling silence.
There's an intelligence in that gaze that surpasses that of a mere creature of myth and legend.
Soap shakes under its unwavering gaze, knees weak and threatening to buckle under his weight. A cold sweat erupts over every inch of his body. He watches wide-eyed, petrified into inaction, as the dragon opens its snout to reveal rows of serrated teeth and a forked tongue. Deep in its gullet, a fire burns.
Soap closes his eyes tightly and braces to meet a fiery, painful end. Of all the ways he envisioned dying, being incinerated by a creature that by all means shouldn't exist was not on the list.
Instead of a rush of flames engulfing him, there's what sounds like rocks tumbling together followed by what shocks Soap into opening his eyes.
“How are you feeling?”
Words. Perfectly clear and understandable, and if Soap isn't completely losing his fucking gourd - which he probably is unless he's having a stroke, it's a toss up - the fucking dragon just spoke with a Manchester accent of all things.
“What?” His voice hasn't reached decibels that high since puberty. He's too busy trying to wrap his mind around the everything of the moment to feel even an ounce of embarrassment.
The dragon tilts its giant head and huffs. Its breath is almost too-hot and faintly sulfuric. “I asked how you're feeling.” Its maw doesn't move as it speaks.
Soap opens and closes his mouth, at a complete loss as his mind refuses to cooperate. He's not 100% sure that he's not still laying on the ground bleeding to death and fantasizing as witches bear down on him.
Another gust of sulfur-hot breath as the dragon lowers its head closer. “Do you not understand me?” It brings up one of its forelegs and scratches itself along the side of its face. For the first time Soap notices a mean-looking scar running from right next to a bright eye all down the snout and bisecting its scaly lips.
“What?” Soap asks again because nothing is making any sense. He might be hyperventilating, chest heaving erratically.
The dragon grumbles like it's annoyed at how slow Soap is and flicks its tongue out. Soap doesn't know why but he feels mildly insulted.
It raises its head and billows white smoke from its flaring nostrils before its whole body is engulfed in violet flames.
Soap yelps and scrambles back from whatever is happening. His feet catch on each other and he lands harshly on his ass with a grunt. His temporarily forgotten injuries - because dragon - scream in protest. He ignores them, though, spellbound by what's taking place right in front of him.
The dragon’s silhouette is visible through the purple blaze and he watches, entranced and scared out of his mind, as it begins to shrink and change, reforming itself into something smaller and more human-shaped. The purple flames flare once before winking out of existence as quickly as they appeared.
Soap's dangerously close to passing out, mind too overwhelmed by all the information he's forcing it to process. His lungs constrict painfully with every breath he takes. He kind of feels like he's drowning.
In place of the towering dragon is a markedly inhuman person.
He - it? - comes closer to where Soap’s still on his ass and crouched in front of him
“I asked how you're feeling.”
“What?” Spots dance in his peripheral vision and he knows he's seconds away from passing out.
The dragon shifter frowns and lifts one of its claw-tipped hands to press against Soap's forehead.
Soap’s vision wavers and darkens further. He blinks and the shifter is inches from his face.
“Mate? Are you sick?”
Mate bounces around the inside of Soap’s head as he succumbs to the welcoming darkness.
—
“Let me get this straight. You decided I'm your mate because I smell good? The fuck?”
Ghost - Soap was offered the name after he woke back up in the small cave with its fur pile and stopped freaking out long enough to hear what was being said - tilts his head and blinks placidly at him. “Yes and no. You smell good because you're my mate.”
What the ever loving fuck.
He takes in Ghost once again, needing to occupy his mind with something while he continues to silently freak out. It's an improvement to fainting like some wilting flower out of a regency book.
His eyes don't know where to settle: the curving black horns or the pointed ears or the long wavy blonde hair that falls to Ghost's shoulders. Or maybe the little black scales around warm brown eyes or the smattering of scales across the rest of his body. Definitely not the fact that even though there isn't any genitalia from what Soap can see, Ghost is decidedly naked. Soap can see his nipples and that's enough for him to squirm just a little.
So many muscles on display.
“Right, sure, whatever. Don't I get a say in this?” Because Soap would remember signing up to be some dragon shifter's mate. There isn't enough alcohol in the world to erase something like that from memory. No print small enough or legalese confounding enough to trick him into tying himself to a creature relegated to legends, one thought to have died out millennia ago.
Ghost frowns and looks off the side, deep in thought.
Soap doesn't know what there is to think about but she gives Ghost a moment to himself.
The seconds tick along and his own mind begins to wander. What happened to the rest of his team? Were they also attacked or was Soap the only one lucky enough to come across hostiles? What happened to his clothes? The rest of his belongings? How old is Ghost? What exactly does being the mate of a dragon entail?
“No.”
Soap startles badly, fingers clenching tightly in the fur thrown across his lap. It takes him a moment to remember the question he initially asked. He's immediately up in arms. “The fuck do you mean no? You can't just force me to be your mate. You can't force me to do anything. Come anywhere near me with your dick and I'll skin you alive and make you into a pair of boots. Fucking try me you overgrown lizard.”
Ghost's eyes are the size of saucers after Soap’s heated tirade, mouth hanging open wordlessly. The tips of sharp fangs and a forked tongue are just barely visible.
In the silence that follows his threat, Soap remembers he's threatening a creature that could crush him under one of its paws only after he's calmed down marginally. He tenses up, waiting for a reaction.
He doesn't expect the slow smile that spreads across Ghost’s face or the rumbling laugh that quickly follows.
“My mate is fierce.” Ghost leans closer to Soap, eyes dancing with mirth. “But what I meant by you not having a choice is that, as a human, you aren't capable of imprinting as I have. It would require me to share my life essence with you in order to create a bond from your side. Without taking that step, you're free to leave at any point.” The smile falters and withers away, expression solemn. “However, you would forever be my mate. I'd have no other in this lifetime.”
For some inexplicable reason, Soap feels a twinge of sadness at that. There's no reason for him to feel any sort of way about a creature he knows next to nothing about. Still, the feeling persists in his chest. “Oh,” is his weak response.
“But,” Ghost continues, “I'm confident I can convince you to be mine in the days to come as you heal.” The smile is back, sharp fangs on full display.
“Oh,” Soap says flatly. He can't begin to imagine what being wooed by a dragon will look like.
If he feels a flutter of something in the ballpark of mild curiosity and/or excitement, he bats it away effectively.
Soap has a life to get back to. Sure, it's lonely with no family to speak of and dangerous more often than not. But, it's the one he has and nothing, not even a handsome dragon shifter, will stop him from returning to it.
—
DAY 4
Ghost keeps bringing Soap gifts. Courtship gifts.
At first it was silver and gold and gems at random intervals throughout the day, an unimaginable fortune effortlessly presented to him. Just the thought of the worth of each piece was overwhelming.
It only took Ghost a day to notice Soap's less than enthusiastic response and change tactics.
Soap will - begrudgingly! - admit that the books are a solid next choice. It's impossible not to get lost in them, to not be full of wonder at everything hidden within their pages.
Spellbooks full of hexes and curses and enchantments so complex that Soap can't begin to fathom how long they must have taken up to create. Grimoires with pages upon pages of meticulous anatomical depictions of beasts and animals long extinct, including s multitude of uses for every part of their bodies. Diaries written by shifters and witches and alchemists and necromancers and sorcerers, detailing everything from exciting adventures all the way down to the everyday minutiae of their lives. Sketchbooks with yellowed pages full of portraits of unknown people and landscapes from all over the world.
Each one leaves him anticipating the next. At times he thinks that if he had a tail it would be wagging the moment Ghost appears with a new book in hand.
It's ridiculous how excited he gets every time Ghost pops up with clean bandages and poultice and a new offering he readily hands over to Soap. He's always careful as he cracks open one of the many leather-bound books, needing to see what secrets lie inside.
Soap studiously ignores the waves of smugness emanating from Ghost every time he can't stifle a gasp or some other kind of sound of excitement.
Then, one day, while eating a bowl of fragrant stew that Ghost materialized out of nowhere - Soap has no idea where the food keeps coming from, has never seen any kind of kitchen while mindlessly exploring the network of caves that make up Ghost's home, the shifter just disappears for approximately half an hour to an hour and reappears with a frankly delicious meal each time Soap gets an inkling of hunger - a battered sketchbook and two charcoal pencils are placed in front of him.
Soap freezes with the spoon halfway to his mouth. He stares down at the scuffed leather cover and pencils. His hand shakes enough that a chunk of potato plops back into the bowl in his lap. The spoon follows soon after.
For some reason his eyes feel a little hot and his throat constricts tightly when he looks up and Ghost is kneeling less than a foot away, smiling softly at him.
“How?” Soap croaks and clears his throat. Rubs a hand over his eyes and scratches at his slightly overgrown beard. He wishes he had his clippers. “How'd you know?”
Ghost shrugs his wide shoulders carelessly and taps black claws on an equally black patch of scales along his naked hip.
(Soap stopped asking him to put on clothes after the third time Ghost tilted his head in confusion and trilled. Like a bird.
It was disgustingly cute. No 6 foot-something, scarred, scarily silent person - shifter, what-the-fuck- ever - should ever be described as cute. Especially with the claws and the teeth and the smoke that lazily billows out of his nose from time to time.
He had to walk away before he got more weird heart palpitations.
His first visit when he's back in civilization is a cardiologist.)
“I see the way you look at the art tomes. I recognize the look of an artist desperate to create. Took the gamble that you like to draw from the amount of time you spend looking at the sketches.” Ghost admits softly.
Soap is genuinely touched. So much so that he ignores the fact that Ghost apparently creeps around watching him while he's absorbed in a book.
“Thank you.” Soap doesn't second guess himself and reaches out to lay a hand on one of Ghost's biceps. He gently squeezes and studiously ignores how firm the skin and muscle feel under his hand. He's so warm compared to Soap.
The seconds stretch between them and they hold each other's gazes.
In his human form, Ghost's eyes appear a warm brown and at first Soap thought that was all there was to them, but this close, he can see a ring of gold around the pupils.
Pupils that are slowly widening as the distance between them is incrementally eaten up by Ghost as he leans closer and closer to Soap.
It takes more effort than expected for Soap to resist Ghost's gravitational pull.
He wants to get closer, to study the pattern of scales scattered across his body, to watch liquid gold overtake chocolate brown and subsequently be eclipsed by the profound darkness of his pupils, to count his surprisingly pale eyelashes, to study every little micro expression as it crosses his face. Instead, he reluctantly drops his hand and turns his attention back onto the sketchbook and pencils.
“Thank you. Really.” He watches through lowered lashes as Ghost straightens back up and tilts his head slowly, in a way that's less bird-like and more a predator observing something interesting. His nose flares and his chest slowly expands with a deep breath.
Soap startles when a rumbling sound begins to echo through the cave. It takes him a moment to realize it's coming from Ghost. Ghost who's still watching him intently, eyes more gold than brown.
Soap's face grows hot for some reason. He tears his eyes away from that consuming gaze and picks up his spoon. Stuffs his mouth full and doesn't look at Ghost, even when the sound shifts to something resembling amusement.
“You're welcome, little mate.” Ghost's low tone dips somewhere deep, more guttural. Intimate.
His face has to be hot enough to cook on by now. “Yeah,” he says nonsensically and takes another bite of food to shut himself up.
Soap is achingly aware of being under Ghost's scrutiny. It makes his chest flutter and stomach squirm. He's not sure if he likes it.
—
DAY 8
Standing on the plateau that makes up Ben Nevis' summit, Soap is absolutely blown away by the view. It's absolutely breathtaking.
Far below, Fort William looks like a miniature model for insects. To the left, Loch Linnhe spreads as far as he can see. The little speck far off must be Lismore Island. To the far distance on the right, Loch Ness is visible If he squints.
Every other direction offers something magnificent to marvel at. The Isle of Skye, the Cuillin Mountains, the West Highland Way, the Glencoe Mountains, the Great Glen.
It's all a feast for the eyes that he greedily takes in.
More than once, Ghost has to pull him away from the edge when he becomes too engrossed in the view to pay attention to how close he is to tumbling to a rocky death.
It's sometime later that Ghost finally pulls his attention away from the scenery. “Come, it's time to eat.”
Soap reluctantly turns away from watching wisps of clouds drift by - they're so close he has to beat down the urge to reach out to touch, to remind himself he can't just get a little closer to the edge - and makes his way over to where Ghost is fruitlessly kicking around rocks in an attempt to even out the ground. The ground that's mostly rocks and pebbles, at that. Ghost eventually admits defeat and spreads a thick blanket over the ground. There's smoke steadily pouring from his nose and mouth. Soap wouldn't be surprised if Ghost is resisting the urge to spew a great gout of flames until the rocks melted into smooth glass.
Ghost folds himself down onto the blanket and reaches for a covered basket. Soap joins him on the blanket, healing leg stretched to the side, and watches in wonder as item after item after item is pulled from its depths.
Pasta and potato salad. Little cucumber sandwiches cut diagonally. Brioche buns stuffed with cold cuts and provolone cheese. Deviled eggs sprinkled with paprika and topped with chives. A bowl of hummus accompanied by a container full of raw vegetables cut into sticks: carrots and celery and jicama and red bell peppers. One bowl of berries - wild cherries and blackberries and lingonberries - and another of chopped up watermelon. A platter of lemon bars covered in cling wrap. A large thermos and two mugs. Two bottles of wine and accompanying cups. Plates and cutlery and napkins. And finally, a little white vase with a single stargazer lily, perfect petals a deep pink.
The vase is carefully placed in the middle of all the dishes.
“Is that Mary Poppins’ fucking basket? Did you raid a grocery store or something?” The questions come tumbling out of his mouth before Soap can bite them back.
Ghost does that head tilting thing that grows more endearing with every day that passes and frowns at Soap. When he answers, he speaks slowly, like he's talking to someone just a little stupid. “I don't know a Mary Poppins. This is my basket, which I've had for nearly a century. As for the food, I made it.”
Soap forgets to feel any kind of indignation at being spoken to like he's a simple-minded child because- “You made all of this? How? Where? ”
Soap still hasn't found the kitchen or whatever passes for one when living in a cave system inside of a mountain.
Ghost nods, the sun catching in his long hair and the scales across his shoulders. They remind him of the surface of an oil slick, when light hits it just right and creates a swirling rainbow. “Yes, I learned to cook human food long ago. And I prepared everything in the kitchen, of course.”
Soap feels like he's going crazy. “00 you have a kitchen? Where? I've looked everywhere for it.”
Ghost grabs a plate and begins to stack food onto it. “Of course you wouldn't be able to access it. It's in a pocket dimension. I don't like the way the smell of food gets into every nook and cranny. A sorcerer I knew long ago did me the favor of moving it. I’d go so far as to say it can rival a human’s kitchen.”
First dragons and now pocket dimensions - a theory, at most, being studied by the best sorcerers around the world. And here’s Ghost, a mythical creature thought to have gone extinct talking about a magical theory like it's nothing. Like it wouldn't revolutionize modern life on a fundamental level. A leap forward of at least a century.
“Just how old are you? How many like you exist?” Soap accepts the plate Ghost holds out to him. He nibbles on a cucumber sandwich as he waits for an answer.
Ghost’s tongue flickers out like a snake tasting the air. Soap wonders if he can actually taste anything or if it's just a habit picked up elsewhere.
“I can't give you a precise number but it's somewhere around 2,700 years. If we don't kill ourselves in battle over stupid things, dragons are long-lived and very slow to age.” Ghost says it like he's commenting on the weather and not completely blowing Soap's mind. Holy shit. “There are many of us throughout the world. We mainly remain hidden. Some of us decide to blend in with the humans. It can be entertaining for a century or two at a time.”
Soap hurriedly chews a deviled egg and almost chokes when he swallows. “Does that mean you can look completely human? You know, no scales or horns or claws?”
“Mm.” Ghost sinks his fangs into a brioche sandwich. Nearly a fourth is gone in one bite. He places the sandwich down and reaches for the thermos. From it, he pours into the mugs what looks like hot chocolate.
In that moment a gust of wind blows past and Soap shivers, burrowing into the bulky coat Ghost had bullied him into. He gratefully takes the mug from Ghost and takes a sip. Rich, spiced chocolate hits his tongue.
As he savors his hot chocolate, Soap watches Ghost eat. He's messy, but chews with his mouth closed. Like he was taught manners as a young boy but forgot most of them in the intervening years.
He's fascinating.
“Can you tell me more about your kind? About your life?” His curiosity has always been one of his defining factors. When Soap becomes interested in anything, the desire to know everything there is to know about it eats at him until it's sated. That includes people.
That includes Ghost.
Ghost looks up from swiping a carrot stick through hummus. His eyes rove over Soap's face before he slowly nods. “Of course, my mate. You can ask me anything and I'll tell you. What would you like to know about first?”
And oh, that's dangerous. Not giving Soap a limit is possibly a huge mistake on Ghost's part.
Soap leans forward and looks Ghost right in the eye. “This question has been eating at me for days. Where are your genitals?”
Ghost looks gobsmacked before he throws his head back and howls with laughter. Soap feels a smug sense of pride to have garnered that reaction.
As Ghost continues laughing, Soap grabs his own carrot stick and scoops up some hummus. The crunch of his teeth biting through the carrot is more satisfying than it's ever been.
It's easy to forget that he's supposed to be healing so he can go back to his normal life.
—
DAY 12
Soap doesn't remember when they started holding hands or casually touching each other or, more importantly, kissing.
Nothing too intense, not even a hint of tongue from either of them, but they linger with the promise of more. It leaves him feeling flustered, like he's a boy with his first crush all over again, blushing and stuttering over his words.
It's nice. More than nice. Delightful is the word that comes to mind. Perfect is another.
Soap has never been romanced this slowly or thoroughly before in his life and he has no defenses against it.
Ghost will wander up to him at random times and cup his cheek in a warm palm and stare deep into his eyes for close to a minute before smiling and walking away. Soap is always left to float through the rest of the day, mind in the clouds, daydreaming about brown eyes and silky blond hair and soft lips and gentle hands.
It's pathetic, if Soap is willing to be honest with himself. He doesn't mind very much.
He doesn't mind at all, actually.
Not if it means being crowded close or kisses being peppered over his cheeks or having a knuckle run down the length of his neck while holding intense eye contact.
It's overwhelming in the best way.
Soap’s attempting to capture the exact pattern of white scales on Ghost's dragon form from when he studied it the day before but there's something wonky going on around the right eye that's just not right and nothing he does makes it better.
His frustration grows with every second that ticks by and the sketch doesn't fix itself. It's a concerted effort to not tear the page to pieces or snap the pencil in half. Instead, he closes his eyes and takes deep, measured breaths.
Tension slowly seeps out of his shoulders and he reminds himself that he can always just ask Ghost to shift for him. He's 94% he'd get a yes without much hassle . Maybe his request would even warrant an amused chuff before being called a silly little mate.
That's something that's been happening more frequently, Ghost referring to Soap as his mate - little mate, silly mate, sweet mate, my mate - instead of by his name.
The one time Soap dared to ask why, Ghost merely shrugged and said something about the convergence of fate and biology and raw instincts demanding acknowledgement of Soap's importance in Ghost's life, regardless of consummation. It was immediately followed by a look so heated Soap had scurried off to get lost in the network of caves until his body calmed and his mind stopped conjuring up image after image of what consummating might entail.
—
Soap reaches a limit he wasn't even aware he was nearing one morning as he's sitting down to eat breakfast with Ghost.
Ghost caresses his cheek after placing a plate of food in front of him and something flips in Soap's mind.
He winds his fingers into Ghost's hair and yanks . The last thing he sees clearly is Ghost’s wide eyes before their lips crashed together and he finally, finally takes his first taste of Ghost's mouth.
He takes from Ghost mouth. His taste, the sharpness of his fangs, the sickness of his tongue, the softness of his inner cheeks.
Takes and takes and takes until he can't anymore and tears his panting mouth away.
They stare at each other, chests heaving and lips slick with saliva.
Slowly, a smile spreads across Ghost's lips. “I liked that.”
This time, it's Soap's hair that's pulled as their lips meet once again. His eyes flutter shut and he succumbs to the force of nature that is Ghost.
—
DAY 16
The first time he came into this particular cave it was the tenth day of his convalescence, fed up with sponge baths and the newly knitted skin on his thigh convincing him he'd suffered long enough.
He'd asked a dragon Ghost if there was any possible way to take a proper bath and, after Ghost shifted into a human, was led to another cavern. It was nowhere near as large as the one full of Ghost’s hoard but still large.in its own right. A pool in the center of the room was fed by a small waterfall, the sunlight from a crack in the ceiling reflecting off its rippling surface helping to beat back the shadows. A trench had been dug into the ground that led to another, smaller, pool to the side. A large rock on either side of the trench stopped the water from flowing and filling the smaller pool.
Ghost had pointed to a chunk of granite at the bottom of the smaller pool and warned him against trying to move it unless he wanted to be sucked down into the depths of the mountain and have his mangle corpse spat out into the lochan. He'd hastily agreed not to touch, morbid images flashing through his mind.
Soap had watched, absolutely fascinated, as Ghost piled up some soapstones, took a deep breath that drew Soap's eye like a magnet for a second or five to his bare chest, before releasing it in a stream of fire directly onto the stones. He'd only stopped when the rocks were glowing bright red. Then, in a move that, in the moment horrified Soap, Ghost picked up the molten rocks with his bare hands and placed them on a ledge in the small pool underneath the lip of the trench.
If he'd felt any pain at all, Ghost never revealed it through his expression or actions. He just removed the rocks stoppering each side of the trench to let water cascade over the heated rocks and fill the pool with gently steaming water. Once sufficiently full, the rocks had gone back where they belonged in the trench.
Ghost handed Soap a large towel, a washcloth, a stack of clean clothes, and a pot that he was told contained a natural soap. Where it all came from was a mystery that Soap was too gobsmacked to pursue.
Then, Ghost was giving him a long once over, eyes half-lidded and a smirk pulling at his scarred lips. Heated.bLike he was envisioning Soap standing naked in front of him. It had Soap flushing and shifting from foot to foot before, mercifully, Ghost left to parts unknown.
It was the best bath of his life.
Now, he shamelessly asks - bordering on demanding - that Ghost help him with preparing a bath.
Ghost never complains.
Currently, Soap is soaking up to his neck in warm water, the heat sinking into his aching muscles.
Riding on a dragon's back is a million times worse than that time he thought himself a cowboy and stayed two weeks at a dude ranch in the states. With a horse there's a saddle and reins and the ground isn't hundreds, if not thousands, of feet below. Sure, there's a possibility of falling and breaking your neck or getting trampled by hooves, but the probability of survival is much higher than falling off dragonback. That probability of survival, if Soap’s being generous, hovers somewhere around -20%.
He's not too proud to admit that he screams like a banshee for the first couple of minutes after they leave the ground and Ghost's huge wings shoot them into the sky.
Soap always has fun - he absolutely loves the thrill of flying through the sky on the back of a fucking dragon , like something out of a fairy tale - even as a healthy dose of fear keeps him sharply aware of the fact that the only things keeping him from becoming a splatter of viscera and gore are his arms wrapped tight around a spike and his thighs spread wide across Ghost's thick neck. He only unclenches when they touch down and his feet are firmly on the ground once again.
Even then, it takes a long soak to truly unwind and dispel the jitteriness left behind by so much adrenaline.
So, Soap takes full advantage of Ghost's willingness to humor him by heating the soapstones and filling the pool before leaving Soap to his own devices.
Soap wishes he wouldn't leave.
It's not a new development but it's a desire that grows larger day by day.
Realistically, Soap knows that, thanks to Ghost's diligent care and the poultice that seems to have magical properties, he could have left days ago. Told Ghost thank you but that Soap's life was waiting for him out there, endless shitty barracks and shitty missions and shitty loneliness.
There's no doubt in his mind he's either been classified dead and his body never found or AWOL and there's a warrant out for his arrest.
Soap leans his head back against the edge of the pool and sighs.
He likes being here. He likes discovering a new cave even after he thought he'd mapped them all out. He likes the books Ghost has collected over countless years. He likes going through the multitude of coins to see if he can figure out where they originated. He likes to sketch the gems, most cut but a few left in their imperfect shapes, trying to replicate the way light hits all the facets. He likes the food Ghost brings him like an offering, each bite like coming home after years spent away. He likes getting to explore nature with Ghost. He likes sitting in companionable silence with a shifted Ghost, leaning against warm scales while reading a book out loud. He likes learning bits and pieces of Ghost's long life, putting them together like puzzle pieces in an effort to see the complete picture of this wondrous person. He likes the deep rumble Ghost makes when he's truly content, like he's purring. He likes the way Ghost looks at him sometimes, like Soap’s worth more than all of his treasures combined. He likes the kisses and lingering touches and warm smiles meant just for him. He likes. He likes. He likes.
Soap likes so much that he fears it's become something more potent, more beautiful. More terrifying.
Something in his chest clenches painfully just thinking about leaving. It's a pain like he's never experienced before. A lump forms in his throat and his eyes water unexpectedly.
Jesus Christ. Here he is supposedly enjoying a bath being shuttled through the sky at eye watering speeds and instead he's become morose at the thought of never seeing Ghost again. How pathetic can he be?
Extremely pathetic, it seems, because he sits up and looks towards the darkened entrance. He clears his throat and crosses his fingers. “Ghost?” He calls out and hopes he's not wrong about the many instances he’s felt like he was being watched while taking a bath.
Almost immediately, Ghost is there, hovering awkwardly a couple of feet into the cavern.
Soap can't help but laugh. He knew he wasn't making it up, that there were eyes on him.
“Do you need something, little mate?” Ghost tilts his head inquisitively.
Soap flushes with pleasure. He definitely likes the way Ghost refers to him.
“Yeah, Ghost,” he says softly, "wanna join me?”
“Yes.” No hesitation, no asking if he's sure, absolutely sure. One moment Ghost is across the room and the next he's slipping into the water a couple of feet from Soap. Like he was eagerly waiting for the opportunity to arise.
“How are your legs feeling?”
Soap smiles. For such a terrifying beast of legend, Ghost is incredibly considerate. “A little sore but nothing I can't handle.”
“That's good. Let me know if you need something for the pain later.” Ghost inches a little closer. If he's trying to be inconspicuous, it's not working. Soap bites his bottom lip hard to stifle a laugh.
A comfortable silence settles between them, the only sound that of the waterfall.
It's nice.
From his periphery, Soap watches Ghost come closer and closer until their shoulders brush against each other. It's then that Ghost finally settles down, skin to skin.
“Hey Ghost?”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever had a bubble bath?” Soap turns to Ghost and watches confusion work its way across his face.
Another head tilt, this one accompanied by furrowed brows and pursed lips. “Bubble bath? Can't say that I have.”
Soap chuckles. “Oh, you're going to love this.” He grabs the pot of natural Soap and unscrews the lid; he only hesitates for a split second before scooping out all of the thick paste and dumping it into the water.
Beside him, Ghost makes an alarmed noise but Soap is too busy frantically swirling his arms through the water. Slowly but surely bubbles begin to cover the surface, the water going opaque. It's not as good as a store-bought bottle of bubble bath but there's enough that Soap can scoop some into his hands and turn towards a startled Ghost and blow bubbles right into his face.
Ghost jerks his head back and flails a little bit. Soap laughs. He can't help it when Ghost looks so scandalized and ridiculous with bubbles trailing down his face and clinging to his horns.
The bubbles are swiped away before they run into Ghost's open mouth and he stares at his sudsy hand for a moment, contemplative.
Soap immediately gets a sense of mounting danger and he begins backing away, hands raised in front of him. “Look, it was only a couple of bubbles, okay, there's no need to-”
A mouth full of soapy water effectively stops his jabbering.
Soap immediately spits it out, gagging at the taste of whatever plants and additional ingredients Ghost uses in his soap. It's disgusting. The scent of eucalyptus is completely deceiving.
When he's done scraping as much of the taste of his tongue as possible, Soap turns a glare at a chuckling Ghost. “You're going to pay for that.” It's the only warning he gives before using both hands to splash Ghost in the face.
There's a moment of stillness where anticipation builds upon itself before it cracks down the middle.
A wave of water surges towards Soap and all he can do is close his eyes and cackle as it hits him.
It devolves into a childish water fight from there. Soapy water goes up his nose and into his eyes and back in his mouth and it's not the greatest of feelings to have his eyes burn but every second is worth it.
Because Ghost is laughing freely and heartily as he half-heartedly attempts to duck out of the way. Water drips from his horns and his blonde hair is flattened against his head, pointed ears sticking out more prominently. The scales on his shoulders and the back of his hands glisten. The small ones around his eyes are almost completely gone. His eyes shine brightly.
He's the most beautiful person Soap’s ever seen.
He never wants to look away.
Soap's decision solidifies and his previous worries dissolve, washed away in the soapy water.
—
DAY 20
“Are you sure about this?”
Soap's never been more sure about anything in his life. Not leaving his hometown. Not joining the army. Not becoming an EOD specialist. This feels like it was always meant to be. “Yes, I'm sure. I want this, I want you. ”
The smile that crosses Ghost's face is heart-wrenchingly tender. So is the way he gently cups Soap's face and presses his thumb against Soap's bottom lip. “Alright. As my mate wishes.”
Ghost takes his hand and leads him towards the pile of furs that have been his bed for weeks now. Once there, they kneel facing each other.
Their first kiss is almost chased, closed lips meeting. It devolves right after into hungry mouths slanting together and curious tongues exploring teeth and pallets and the tender inside of cheeks.
It's a good kind of strange to tangle his tongue with Ghost's forked one. The tips move individually from each other and it's almost ticklish the way they caress Soap's human tongue.
As they kiss, their hands wander across each other's naked bodies.
One of Ghost's hands threads through Soap's overgrown mohawks, claws gently scratching at his scalp. Shivers run up and down his spine. He can feel goosebumps rising across his skin.
Ghost's other hand drops down to Soap's ass and parks itself there, squeezing and massaging a big handful.
Soap caresses where skin meets scales on Ghost's shoulders for long moments. It gets a rumbling groan fed into his mouth. Eventually, he trails his hands down Ghost's curiously hairless torso, smooth and fever hot with only the occasional scar. He explores the scars with his fingers, making a mental note to ask the story behind each one sometime in the future.
One hand travels around to Ghost's back, exploring the defined muscles as well as more scars. His other hands and just towards the scales covering Ghost’s pelvis. Remember not so long ago bluntly asking about his genitals and getting back more than Soap ever expected.
Hiding amongst smooth black scales is a slit that will eventually reveal not one but two penises. That had been quite the surprise. Soap had spent days in a bit of a fog, trying to imagine what two cocks of his ass would feel like.
Isn't currently brave enough to even consider working himself open like that but it's something to look forward to in the future.
For now, his fingers hit upon a section of scales that feel different. There's a give there, unlike the armor plating that Ghost’s scales usually remind him of. He rubs against that spot to see what happens.
Something slippery coats the tips of Soap's fingers and he has to tear away from Ghost's addicting mouth to look down and see what's happening.
The patch of scales he's been rubbing spread apart to reveal dark pink skin glistening with some kind of natural lubricant. As he watches wide-eyed, first one then the second cock extend from Ghost's pelvis.
Soap gulps, nerves rattling a little. They're big. Bigger than he expected. Thick at the base and tapering to a blunt tip. There's no crown or foreskin, just smooth pink flesh dripping with Ghost's natural lubricant. The top one is marginally smaller than the bottom one; still, they droop under their own weight.
Soap's asshole clenches tight. He's not sure if he's scared or excited. Regardless, he doesn't hesitate to grab one in each hand. A firm stroke from base to tip has Ghost nearly collapsing against him, a loud gasp leaving his panting mouth.
Soap releases him immediately, afraid he might have been too rough. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
Ghost shakes his head against Soap's shoulder. “No," he says. “Just sensitive. I think for this first time it's best that you not touch me there.”
Though Soap feels mildly disappointed he won't get to explore that part of Ghost's anatomy more closely, he understands. He wouldn't want to end things before they even had a chance to begin.
“Okay,” he says into a delicately pointed ear. “How do you want me, then?”
Ghost straightens back up and looks searchingly at Soap. He must find whatever he's looking for because he nods firmly and helps him lay back amongst the furs. “Like this. I'd like to see your face.”
“Yeah, okay. This is good.” Soap looks up at Ghost and slowly spreads his legs. He watches Ghost watch him, those brown eyes slowly turning gold.
“One of these days I'm going to explore every inch of you. Today, though, I just need to be inside of you.” Ghost crawls between Soap’s open thighs. Presses close until their cocks nestle together on Soap's lower stomach. Ghost grabs Soap's legs and pushes them up until his hips tilt. He then holds his right hand up and Soap watches as his claws recede and turn into blunt nails. That's a handy trick to have.
Ghost swipes his now blunt fingers through the lubricant dripping from his own cocks. Once they're thoroughly covered, he reaches into the space between their hips and slides his slick fingers between Soap's ass cheeks.
The first touch against his whole has Soap gasping and fisting his hands into the furs. The first slide of Ghost's finger into him has him arching up with a soft gasp. The first press against his prostate as Ghost swirls his finger around has Soap releasing a moan so guttural and deep that for a second he thinks it's Ghost making the sound.
From there his awareness slips to the wayside. Everything boils down to sensations. A hand caressing his inner thigh. Lips kissing his face. Teeth grazing along his neck and shoulders. Those same teeth sinking into his tender skin, stopping just before drawing blood. A finger moving in and out of him slowly, then a little faster, then even faster until it's pistoning in and out of him. The stinging stretch of one finger becoming two becoming three until all that's left in they're awake is pleasure.
Soap blinks into awareness when the fingers are replaced with a blunt pressure. The first thing he sees is Ghost's face hovering inches from his. There's a faint blush across his cheeks and his tongue is tasting the air between them.
Soap thinks he looks beautiful.
“Now?” Soap asks breathily.
Ghost looks him in the eye and nods once. “Yes. It'll only hurt for a moment.”
“I trust you.” And it's the truth. Somehow, Soap has grown to trust Ghost as much as he trusts himself. It's been less than a month but it feels like the most natural thing.
Ghost leans down and kisses the crook of Soap's neck once, twice. At the same time, the pressure against Soap's hole increases. Ghost presses his sharp teeth to Soap’s skin and the moment his cock slides in, his fangs sink deep into Soap's neck.
It hurts for a fraction of a second before Soap’s whole world expands and contracts and explodes into pleasure. It's overwhelming, inundating, endless. Like someone's tapped directly into the pleasure center of his brain and is caressing it.
He loses track of time and space and self. Knows only the weight of Ghost on top of him and the force of his thrusts and the pressure of his fangs lodged in Soap’s skin.
It's perfect. It's world destroying. It's a remaking of self.
Soap only settles back into himself when a roar splits the air.
Above him, head thrown back and fangs bared in a snarl, Ghost trembles violently.
Soap can only blink. He feels tired, lethargic. His skin is damp with sweat. The side of his neck throbs. When he looks down he can see that he came but doesn't remember it happening. His thighs tremble around Ghost's waist.
He lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment. Just one.
—
When Soap blinks open his eyes again, Ghost is sitting next to him, watching him.
“What.”
It earns him an amused grin. “You passed out on me. Come on, let's get you cleaned up.”
“Oh.” With a groan of effort, Soap sits up. He allows Ghost to help him to his unsteady feet.
Soap leans heavily against Ghost as they slowly make their way towards the entryway. Halfway there though, Ghost pauses and turns to look at him.
Soap looks up in confusion, mouth open to ask a question but the expression on Ghost's face silences him.
So tender and soft and full of an emotion he hesitates to name.
Soap doesn't have to worry, though, because Ghost cradles the side of his neck, looks him deep in the eyes, and says, “I love you, my little mate. I know it with a certainty I can’t begin to explain. It’s a part of me rooted so deep, it’s impossible to unravel it from my core. Nothing will ever be able to change that.”
Soap never knew just how much he needed to hear those words from that mouth said in that tone.
Eyes filled with tears and a smile splitting his face, he throws himself into Ghost's arms and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until his lungs beg for an ounce of oxygen.
Pulling back with a gasp, he laughs joyously and says, “I love you, too.”
fin