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“Fuck’s sake.”
The words were just two of many, many curses that were spilling from Soap, sneered, seething, into the humid, gnat-infested air of the swamplands they were navigating through.
Their mark figured them out. Knew they were being tailed, and baited them into the mud–into the murky, overcast darkness off a backroad.
Ghost was silent, but Soap was working him up, and not the way he liked being worked up. Soap’s irritation was wafting off of him like the meaty stench of sulfur that suffocated them, surrounding them, their boots and the bottom halves of their fatigues damp from wading through the shallow, stagnant water.
Tall trees grew upward through the scum and algae, blotting out the round shape of the moon, only letting a hazy gleam through. It lit up Soap’s face, sweaty, bloody, and pissed off, his lips moving around another expletive, teeth gritting. “Never goin’ to fuckin’ find them now.”
“MacTavish.”
“Should have just waited them out, shoulda never –”
“John ,” the tone of Ghost’s voice, the volume of it–the use of Soap’s given name–interrupted Soap’s tirade. “Shut the fuck up. Think your bitchin’ is gonna help? Focus.”
“On fuckin’ what ? The endless boggin’ shite water?”
Ghost made a displeased noise low in his throat, grasped Johnny by the nape of his tense neck, and turned his head so he was looking where Ghost was looking. A patch of dry land, some forest. “We'll spend the night over there, figure it out in the mornin’.”
“Aye, gee, creamin’ my pants, so excited.”
The hand around Soap's neck let go, shoving a little, making Soap stumble more than he honestly meant to. Soap got into these moods whenever they didn't nail their prey right away. He hated failing, always so intent on doing things the best, the right way, better than anyone else, the first time.
So covetous of his reputation, so keen that he couldn't handle a little disappointment, couldn't take when things didn't go exactly how he wanted them to.
Ghost was more pragmatic, more patient. When it came to work, anyway. “You're going to square up, sergeant. Had enough of your attitude.”
He could see Soap struggle with that–should he say the next thing on the tip of his tongue? Give into his base instincts? See if Ghost was actually serious?
Soap settled on shitty, insincere silence. Tense, touchy silence. He wasn’t letting it go.
They made it to the raised ground, stable enough to sleep on, but still damp when Ghost took a glove off and touched it, fingers burying themselves in the grass.
“It’ll do,” was all he said, and they got to work setting up the ridiculously tiny tent that they’d have to squeeze into, Soap jerking things around, tossing things to the ground, fists still clenching.
His mood was going to take something more than just barked orders to soothe. Soap was spiraling, doubting himself; he required a little guidance, some straightening out.
He'd have to get Soap to look at him, listen to him. He knew it was what Soap needed when he got like that. He craved it. Thinking about how much Soap craved it made Ghost's crotch feel fucking warm, right there in the middle of the goddamn swamp, drenched, tired.
Didn't matter. He knew what was coming.
He came up behind Soap, grabbing the cigarette he’d lit, tossing it, crushing it under his boot. Wrapped his arm firmly around Soap’s shoulders, pressing him back, right into him, right against his still body. “Get in the tent, Johnny,” he said, against Soap’s ear, his even, commanding voice without any room for Soap to question.
Already, Soap's body gave a bit, slackened. Like he was waiting for the order.
When they crammed themselves inside–flashlight thrown in the corner so they could see–Ghost settled at the back of the tent, one leg bent, the other straight out, intentionally leaving space. Soap kneeled there, at the opening of the tent. He was suddenly so quiet, his hands on his knees. He knew what was coming, too, was taught with anticipation.
Ghost didn’t say anything, just pointed to the empty spot in the middle of his spread thighs with the hand that was still gloved.
Soap crawled over, quick, obedient, his breath already coming quicker, all that angry energy melting into something aching and needy. He settled right between Ghost’s legs, his dark blue eyes flicking up to Ghost’s.
“Don’t just sit there. Take your fuckin’ clothes off.”
Soap’s breath trembled through his nose, and he did what he was told, efficiently. His naked body was just as sweaty as Ghost liked it, the thick, damp air making it even more so when he was exposed. That was going to taste so good.
“Turn around.” Instant compliance, again. Fuck, Soap was ready.
Ghost admired the illuminated edges of Soap's body from behind. All that, his.
Whenever Ghost wanted him. His.
“Get in my lap.”
Soap backed up, climbed up onto him, head brushing the top of the tent, right there, where he could get his hands on him. Right onto his swamp-water-soaked denim, his body hot from the temperature and arousal. “Such a needy boy, huh, Johnny? You ready to shut up, now? Eh? Ready to take what I give ya?” Soap nodded.
Ghost ran a fingertip down Soap's back, so gentle, appreciating him, every pretty scar. Shoved Soap forward, so forcefully, until he was supporting himself on his palms, the position making him raise his ass, spread his thighs for Ghost to see.
The air was so thick in the small tent that Ghost could see it condensing on Soap's skin, little droplets on the ridges of his spine. He leaned forward, licking it up, savoring the flavor and the smell of Soap's perspiration, one of his favorite things.
Johnny shook, again, bowed down more. “C’mon, Lt. Do something.”
Ghost could tell, just from Soap’s voice alone, that he was hard against his stomach.
Ghost grabbed at his arm, tugged, forced him to bend more. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth or you won’t get anything,” his words were rough with his own arousal. Seeing Soap bent like that, in the middle of hostile territory, in a flimsy tent–willingly offering him his body, disgusting as it was, as they both were–was enough to make him insane.
His hands parted Soap’s ass cheeks, spread them wide, and he spat, right in between them, watched it dribble down, catching on thick, dark hair, right into Soap’s sweaty hole. And he spat again, because that wasn't going to be enough.
“Fuck, Simon.”
“Ah–” a warning noise.
“Sir ,” Soap corrected himself. “Need you to fuck me.”
“Didn't say anything about fucking you.”
“Then what–”
Ghost ignored the question, running his finger down Soap’s cleft, pushing his spit into him, around him, forcing whimpers from his lips. So beautifully docile before he even did what he was going to do.
He grabbed the little flashlight, the beam of light wavering around the tent, shined it right on Soap's asshole, groaned at the way he could see every detail. “So fuckin' pretty, so ready, huh, darlin’?” Soap was clenching, bowing his head, pushing back.
He wanted some penetration, bad.
Ghost spat on him, again. His own breath grinding out of him, so heavy as he slid his fingers in. Two, at once. He knew what Soap could take. What he wanted to take. The spit helped, but not as much as it should have. Soap’s head dipped down, and he took a minute to get used to it.
“Not gunna fuck me? What're you doin’ then?” he choked out.
He pushed at the gorgeous curve of Soap’s spine, making his body bow more. “Just wanna see.”
He fucked Soap with his fingers, once, twice, maybe not enough times, but he was impatient. This was what made him impatient.
The round metal handle of the flashlight pressed against where his fingers just were.
“What the fuck–" Soap pulled away at the cold intrusion, but pushed back again, just as quickly, “What the fuck ,” he said again, words so turned on he sounded pitiful.
“Just wanna watch,” Ghost ground out, “Watch this tight little hole take things.”
Soap let himself fall all the way forward, and Ghost pressed the end of the flashlight into him, watching, groaning as Soap took it, like the good soldier he was. Doing whatever his lieutenant needed him to do.
Ghost’s dick twitched in his uncomfortably damp, sodden jeans.
Soap opened up so beautifully, took half the metal grip right inside, moaned for it.
“God, go on, look at you.”
His words just got Soap going more, made him bear back on it, fuck himself, and Ghost was fully hard, Soap fully submissive, heading toward the sort of submission Ghost knew was dangerous.
He wanted to take advantage, just a little bit. He couldn’t help himself.
When he took the end of the flashlight out, the metal all slick with Soap’s insides, Soap cried. The little whore cried out for it, searched for it with his hips.
He was so nicely stretched, gaping. Ghost’s hands grabbed at the round, firm ass cheeks in front of him, roughing them up, making them all flushed, making Soap whimper “Please .”
“Please what?”
“Somethin’ else. Don't care. Just–” the desperate, choked off sound Soap made was so pretty.
Something else.
Ghost grabbed at the knife sheathed on his thigh, slipped it out. Shoved the blade right down into the bottom of the tent, into the soft ground between his thighs, right behind Soap. The hilt was thicker than the small flashlight, but it was manageable, if Soap could manage his cock. The slightly squared off edges would make it interesting.
But he knew Soap didn’t give a fuck.
He got that wet with spit, too.
“Sit on it,” he guided Soap backwards–Soap trying to see, and when he saw, he grabbed onto Ghost’s wrists so fucking forcibly.
Grabbed onto them so he could steady himself, steady himself enough to take it.
Ghost stopped him, though, right at the tip of the polished steel handle, right as he was about to start sinking down, hands holding him up by both warm, round cheeks. He’d put his torch down strategically, in his own lap, facing Soap, illuminating the back of him so he could see every fucking moment, clearly.
Soap looked so goddamned gorgeous like that, thoroughly naked, trembling with want. Clenching, trying to ease himself down. The beginnings of words formed on his lips into the humid air, but he thought better of it, the words fading into whimpers. Soap knew Ghost was going to do exactly whatever the fuck he wanted to do.
Nothing more, nothing less.
If Ghost had been capable of embarrassment, he would have felt some at how badly he needed to look at every detail of Soap’s body.
A violent need that tore through him whenever he caught even the smallest glimpse of Soap’s skin, at the most inappropriate times.
But Ghost didn’t feel embarrassed at all. Not about that, not about the sick things he was about to do, the sick things he’d already done. Not about the way he ran his gloved fingertip around Soap’s rim as he took the first few centimeters of the hilt, wincing at the intrusion of the odd angles. He handled it, though, handled it real nicely. Like a brave boy.
Ghost felt pride swelling in his chest and his cock swelling against his thigh. “Nicely done, Johnny. Hard part’s over.”
The red flush Ghost loved so much spread down the back of Soap’s neck, across the backs of his shoulders. Ghost’s approval always did that to him.
Most of the blade was dug, hard, into the ground, but there was still some decent, sharp danger if Soap went too far, and that was always a risk. Ghost had never seen someone as eager for their ass filled.
He’d still yet to find an end to the lengths Soap would go. It’d become Ghost’s deeply personal, fucked up experiment, figuring that one out.
And here Johnny was, riding the handle of his knife like it was a dick, like he rode Ghost’s dick. But fuck–the hands he still had on Soap’s ass cheeks tightened, stilled him. “Careful. Gunna hurt yourself, you start fuckin' it like that.”
“Nnnnn,” Soap tried to speak, but he was already getting stupid. “Cannae see it,” there was the thickness of his accent, untamed when Soap’s brain started shutting down for anything else but the pleasure between his legs.
“I won't let it cut ya, lad. Keep going,” he slapped one of Soap’s cheeks, lightly, just to get him to move again.
Soap made so many obscene noises for him as he moved on the little bit that he could get in him, but Ghost knew it wasn’t enough–that he was getting frustrated. He thought about putting a hand around Soap's undoubtedly aching cock, but he left it. Kinda wished he could see that, too, at the same time, bobbing against his abdomen, leaking.
Ghost spread his legs wide so he could get the best view, get a hand into his own jeans. He was hurting, he was so hard, and he didn’t feel like ignoring it anymore. He tugged at his thick, angry prick once, twice, taking the edge off a bit as he watched, his eyes so intensely greedy that he looked a little mad.
He brought the hand up that had been playing with Soap, up to his face, instinctually, loving the way Soap smelled on the cotton.
The need for more of Soap’s sweaty, filthy musk took hold, and he was tapping Soap’s ass again, “Enough.”
Soap complained, but he slid off, and Ghost pulled his knife out the ground, holding it right under the hilt, tried not to stare too much at the way it was all shiny and slick. Godfuckingdamnit. He twitched in his hand, threw the knife to the side, the flashlight.
“Get over here, arse up.” He got Soap back into his lap, facing away, bowed down, manhandling him into the right position. Ghost was done with the slow filth.
He bent himself in half, adjusting his mask that was already pulled up a bit further, onto the bridge of his nose, buried his face right between Soap’s legs, against his hole, his taint, all over, rubbing his harshly stubbled cheeks there and getting the spit leaking out of him, his own used spit, smeared on his face. Fuck.
Soap echoed the sentiment, “Fuck , fuck, Ghost." He was so close to completely gone already. That bad mood was a distant memory.
Ghost licked and sucked at the heat of Soap, already tightening up again, clenching against Ghost’s sloppy lips, lips that were rarely kind or gentle. But they took on a sweet kind of reverence when they were savoring Soap like that.
He pulled his balaclava back down, over his mouth, again, tasted Soap through it, tonguing him through the thin fabric. Wanting to have Soap’s most intimate smell saturating the threads, so he’d get to keep that with him for a while.
Just as soon as he could hear Soap's breathing rasping out of his nose, rough, Ghost pulled away, replacing his mouth with his cock, sliding it neatly along Soap’s cleft, nestling it there, groaning at the way it was so pink and veiny and mean looking against all of Soap's soft roundness.
Something ugly defiling something beautiful.
“Thought you weren’...gonna fuck me.”
“M'not. You're welcome to tell me how much you want me to, though, sweetheart,” he squeezed Soap’s cheeks around himself, didn’t penetrate, just rutted into the tight fit, against Soap’s warmth, feeling how pliable his body was getting.
Soap told him exactly how much he wanted to be fucked, chanted it.
Ghost kept going like that for a minute before he let go and just looked at himself there, got a hand around himself, and teased Soap’s rim, slowly, with his prick’s wet tip, got him nasty with precome, teased until he couldn't help but push the very tip of himself inside Soap, only a little. Not really breaking his promise.
Soap’s growl was bloodthirsty as he pushed back, “Aye, aye. Fuck me .”
“No.”
It was a hell of a fucking ordeal, not doing it. Not just shoving his prick all the way in and using Soap ‘till he was done.
But he was a man of his word, if nothing else. And he liked making Soap insane.
He rubbed and teased Soap with his cock some more, edged a bit of himself right inside the rim of Soap over and over, until Soap was a wrecked sight bent before him. Did it until he came, a low groan tearing from his big, heaving chest as he watched the thick, pearlescent drops making Johnny's aching hole all pretty and wet and messy.
He shut his eyes, leaned his head back a bit at the satisfaction that settled in him after that long bitch of a day, hand resting on Soap’s quivering ass, massaging it just a little bit, just because he liked the feeling, just because it made Soap pitiful. “Ghost, please , I need–”
“Save it, Johnny, gotta take a piss.”
Soap grabbed back behind himself, latched onto Ghost’s wrist as he started to get up, anchoring him down right there, using all that considerable strength he could easily turn against Ghost, “Fuck, no. No. Just...just do it. I'll– don't leave me like this ."
Ghost didn’t know he could make the animal sound that came out of him, ripped from his wretched soul, ripped right from his core at the suggestion. At how deranged it was. How much he wanted to. “Just goin' out for a bloody minute, christ,” he said, testing–
“Please,” Soap slurred, bending over more for him, presenting himself for it. Ghost thought he might cry at how fucked up he was at that.
“Please, what? Say it. Tell me what you’re askin’ for.”
“Just do it on me.”
“Do what?” Ghost sounded fucking ticked off at how much he needed to hear those disgustingly filthy words come out of Soap’s mouth. So turned on, he wished he could get hard again, come again.
“Piss on me. Do it.” The words were so small, he could hear Soap’s humiliation, but he could also hear his raw fucking arousal.
“Jesus fuckin’–”
He got up to his knees, yanked Soap back against him, against his softening cock.
“Aye, do it," Soap moaned from where his cheek was pressing into the hard tarp beneath them.
“Desperate slag,” Ghost growled, closing his eyes, getting a hand around himself, even softer, but still full, big, sliding himself right where he’d just come, letting go, groaning long and deep at the feeling of doing that on Soap, to Soap. His piss mixing with his come, dribbling down the backs of Soap's trembling thighs, dripping onto the tent floor. “You're so fuckin' pathetic and dirty. Fuck.”
Soap was marked with every fluid his body had to give. His spit, his spend, and his piss. It was so intoxicating that Ghost actually groaned a second time, louder.
Soap sounded like he was coming, sounded like he was trying to stop himself.
God, he was such a good, good boy. Ghost felt the deepest affection, and he helped Soap out, quick, getting his hand around his cock, allowing him to fuck his fist through the remnants of his orgasm.
Soap went slack, and Ghost let him go, let him collapse, spent, onto the floor of the tent.
Ghost looked at him, naked and completely debauched, palms splayed out over the ground. Ghost couldn’t help himself, got down there on the floor over him, his body engulfing him, wrapping around him possessively, completely oblivious to the mess it was getting on his front.
God, Soap was so good.
And if that was what loving someone felt like–that violent contentment–then, sure, maybe Ghost loved him.