Chapter Text
It’s not the first time Ghost has the urge to hurt him like this, but this time it’s stronger.
Soap is sitting next to him, wedged in next to him on the bench at the rear of the transport vehicle, and Ghost has already slung one of his arms around the sergeant’s shoulders, forcing the side of the other man’s body up against his own. This action itself is not unusual: not anymore, anyway. It’s the kind of move Ghost has come to enjoy using on him, affectionate but borderline threatening, something that always makes Soap laugh with a near-undetectable edge of nervousness.
The two of them are not alone, but they’re secluded enough in this part of the wagon, and no one is paying close attention. Ghost doesn’t even recall the exact annoyance that had prompted his actions this time, just that his hand had ended up wrapped around the sergeant’s upper arm, fingers against the bare skin just above the crook of his elbow. Even through the fabric of his glove, the skin there feels oddly soft, vulnerable under his fingertips. Around them, the sound of the engine is smooth, dull, hypnotic. Soap’s body is warm.
The desire, when it comes, is almost simultaneous with the action. The decision is smoothed by the low sound around them, the warmth of his skin that presses through all the layers of clothing. Ghost tightens his hand, pulls a piece of skin tight between his second and third fingers.
Soap probably makes a small noise, lost in the sound of the engine.
The pain probably isn’t bad, considering what he’s used to. But Soap does give a little surprised jerk at the suddenness of it, his body shifting sideways as if he’s trying to get away from Ghost’s fingers. This, of course, just presses him closer against Ghost’s side, Soap’s elbow jutting hard into his waist.
Ghost doesn’t wait, goes further: pinching down harder on the little patch of trapped skin, twisting it lightly between his fingers.
Soap doesn’t move anymore, and makes no further attempt to extricate himself. He only stiffens slightly, the muscles in his shoulder and arm tight against Ghost’s torso. Ghost lets his own eyes flick down to look at the other man’s expression: the sergeant is staring straight ahead, looking off into the middle distance, an almost dazed look on his face. The sight stirs something in him, something that sparks down his spine and makes his dick throb in his pants. It makes him want to do more, push it to see how long Soap’s reaction will hold out.
Instead, after a moment, Ghost simply lets go. He pulls his arm back from around Soap’s shoulders, withdraws his attention from the man next to him.
The whole incident had lasted maybe ten seconds. Next to him, Soap just sits there on the bench seat next to him with only the slightest unease visible on his face, and doesn’t say a fucking word.
These things are like chain reactions: act on it once, and you’ll just want to do it again and worse. Ghost is professional, though; he only allows himself to get distracted in his downtime. He doesn’t act on the strengthened impulse until weeks later, when Soap is sitting next to him while they’re out drinking. This alone is probably a bad idea, but the rules around these things tend to be more relaxed when it comes to their team, and that’s something out of Ghost’s control. The important part is that the two of them are surrounded by people this time, and the brazen publicness of the action seems to somehow make what he does more acceptable: after some comment or another Ghost just grabs him, hauls him onto his lap.
Soap swears, twists on top of him trying to get away, but he’s laughing, and everyone around them at the table roars with laughter too. Only Ghost can hear the edge of nervousness in the way the sergeant laughs; a line had been crossed that Soap is trying to ignore. He pulls the other man’s hips closer against his own crotch, only for half a second but enough time for him to feel it, and then Ghost releases his grip. He lets his hand slide across the side of Soap’s hip and down his thigh as Soap slips off of him, back onto the booth seat next to him.
Soap thumps his fist against Ghost’s ribs performatively, and he is still smiling.
Again, it’s all over in seconds. Over the next few minutes Soap shoots him a few tight, nervous glances, probably thinks Ghost doesn’t notice. He’s the only one here who could tell Ghost wasn’t just fucking around, and that knowledge enough to keep Ghost warm and entertained for the rest of the night, drawing out the other man’s discomfort simply by not noticing him, not looking.
Ghost leaves early, alone—not unusual, but this time he can feel the sergeant’s eyes on him, staring when he thinks Ghost doesn’t notice. He’s just making it worse for himself, making it inevitable.
Further impulses come in the form of images. At first, most of them are simple in their stark violence: pull him close until he feels his ribcage break. Tear him open, feel the heat of his blood, see how much hotter it is compared to his skin. Then they’re mixed in with images of fucking him—the two things have always been muddled, increasingly so as the years go on.
But he knows from the start that neither of those things are what he’s truly after. Hurting Soap is incidental, and the people Ghost fucks are interchangeable. What Ghost actually wants from him is seeing the way he reacts, the ways he copes with everything Ghost does. That’s the idea that has dug itself into his brain, a curiosity he doesn’t quite understand.
There’s no need to wait longer than necessary, no need to delay taking what he wants. As soon as Ghost’s mind fits around the idea, it’s inevitable. Somewhere out there there’s a bullet that has probably already been cast, already out there in the world making its way towards them, until it kills one or both of them. This is no different—it’s just a matter of time.
It isn’t difficult for Ghost to intercept him late one night: his plan involves lurking outside in the dark at the right time and place to find Soap while he’s on his way back to his room.
It’s a small base on a short detachment, but even so, Ghost has no business being in this part of it, especially this late. But Soap doesn’t know that, and Soap is not going to question him. Especially considering that the man is halfway drunk.
Soap visibly starts when he sees him, but composes himself immediately, standing up straighter. “Evening, sir,” he says.
Ghost doesn’t return the greeting. He has stopped Soap not far from entrance to the SNCO block: there’s enough artificial light here to see the nervousness clear across his face. “Where are you coming from?” he asks, then moves on before Soap can think up a good answer. “You been drinking?”
Soap eyes him, clearly tossing up whether to lie. They’re not supposed to drink in this particular shithole, or even have any alcohol in their possession. In reality, Ghost doesn’t care, but Soap can’t know that for sure.
“Who’re you with?” Ghost prompts.
He already knows the answer to the question; he had already ignored his drinking partner slipping back into the same building they're standing outside, a few minutes earlier. But Soap’s expression has turned harder now, more determined: this is a question he is definitely not going to answer.
He’s always so reflexively brave: it’s so sincere Ghost can’t stand it. It’s already an uncomfortably warm night, and seeing him act like this is like standing too close to a fire.
“Come with me,” Ghost says, as if he’s fed up.
Soap does a little double take, glances wistfully in the direction of the building he'd been about to enter. “Can’t you just—”
Ghost ignores him, already turning away, and the sergeant cuts himself off and follows him.
He must believe he’s in trouble, but when Ghost glances over his shoulder, the other man looks only slightly apprehensive. There’s even a little glow in his eyes, as if even now, in a situation where any normal person would assume they’re about to get into deep shit, Soap is still happy to see him.
He follows Ghost all the way back to the officer's mess, and when they get there Soap doesn’t remark on how isolated the setup is—corner unit, no neighbors—because that part is not unusual or surprising. Soap doesn’t even hesitate about stepping into his room alone late at night, because enough unusual things have already happened between them that it probably doesn’t even strike Soap as particularly strange. It’s like working with Ghost has turned him into the equivalent of an animal that has lost its fear of humans.
Ghost turns on the overhead light, then steps over to his main pack, which is resting against the foot of his bed. He reaches down to dig into it, pulls out one of several small glass bottles that were stashed inside an interior admin pouch.
“Here.” He stands up, hands over the bottle. The room is so small he barely has to lean over, even though Soap is only standing just inside the door. “Can’t promise it’s any good, but at least it won’t turn you blind like whatever slop you’ve been smuggling in.”
Soap takes the bottle from his outstretched hand, then slowly holds it up in front of him, staring at the liquid inside as if he’s not sure it’s real. Watching him so enthralled makes something urgent flare inside Ghost—desire, rage, both, why even bother pulling them apart—but still, he finds himself turning away.
Ghost has no issue with following rules: they’re a good scaffold when everything that should serve as your internal guidance system has died and rotted away. His current task is clearly outside of institutional rules, but the echoes of that scaffold are still there. And right now it’s telling Ghost that achieving his aims by simply bribing a tipsy enlisted man to stay in his room is—too easy. Distasteful.
So he turns his back on the other man, concentrates on closing the lid of his pack. He makes it clear from his body language that he expects Soap to simply slip the bottle into his sleeve, leave, and go to bed. If that happens, Ghost will let him go, and it’ll be over. For tonight, anyway.
But Soap doesn’t leave. Out of the corner of his eye Ghost sees him look around for a moment, and then step over to the chair next to Ghost’s desk, settling down on it. He does this all hesitantly, like he is well aware that he is overstepping the rules as well.
Ghost glances back over to him, acknowledging Soap’s decision to stay. Soap’s hesitation seems to be gone already: the man sits back in the chair and grins up at him, relaxed as anything, as Ghost sits down on the edge of his own bed.
That’s interesting. The kid might be stupid, but he’s not obliviously stupid. He knows what Ghost has done to him in the past. And yet, he still chooses to stay here with him. It’s not purely personal trust, either—it’s just the way he is, this reflexive assuredness that things will be okay, that he’ll be able to handle any bad thing that happens. That’s likely the part of him that Ghost is most fixated on: that strange, trusting resilience of someone who’s still alive.
Ghost doesn’t want to destroy it, so much as he wants closeness: It’s the fire he wants to step inside and burn to death. It makes Ghost want to grab him already, go ahead and make something bad happen, but those same fragile half-remembered rules from before are telling him that it’s still too soon.
It should be difficult to keep up anything resembling normal conversation, but Ghost barely has to make an effort. Either due to alcohol or latent nervousness, the sergeant barely shuts up. He’s drinking more than usual, as well—has made quite a dent in the bottle already, and it’s not lightweight stuff.
Ghost keeps the bottom half of his mask pulled down so he can take a drink from the bottle when it’s passed over, but he paces himself, waits until it seems right—until Soap has wasted enough chances to leave, or until Ghost’s own patience wears down, whatever comes first. After a little while—after Soap finishes a story about the spider he had seen in the showers earlier that evening, and how it was so big he thought it might actually be some kind of mouse, et cetera—Ghost stands up, and heads into the tiny attached bathroom so he can piss. On his way back to the bed, he stops next to the chair the sergeant is sitting in, puts an arm around his shoulder, and guides him to stand up.
Surprisingly, he’s met with no resistance—Soap stands, lets himself be walked towards the narrow bed, lets Ghost lead him to sit down next to him. Just lets it all happen, with only a glance sideways at Ghost, trying and failing to hide his confusion. He’s clearly apprehensive, too, but he does a much better job of hiding that. Ghost only senses his faint fear in the way Soap’s hand tenses up when Ghost eases the glass bottle from his grip, quickly sets it aside on the floor. But still Soap doesn’t move. Sitting on his bed, the world’s easiest target, and Ghost reaches out, grabs him by the jaw.
He’s surprised again by Soap’s reaction, or rather, his lack of it. A flash of something like panic, but it vanishes from his face, replaced by what looks like forced calmness.
It’s because Soap is so accustomed to being scared around him, Ghost realises. Hiding his own fear around Ghost is just muscle memory by now.
And yet still—he’d come in here, and stayed. Ghost lets that thought wash over him like a wave as he tightens his grip on his jaw, lets it feed the desire that’s creeping up through him, moving up through his stomach, overtaking his limbs.
He doesn’t move for a moment, lets the other man’s discomfort rise, lets him sit there, on this unfamiliar bed under the bright light.
“It’s—getting late.” Soap is doing an amazing job of trying to maintain some sense of normalcy. It’s betrayed by the tension in his jaw, the slight wavering when he tries to meet Ghost’s eyes, but it’s a good effort. “I should go back.”
“Too late for that,” Ghost says, and he watches Soap keep up that internal struggle as Ghost shifts the hand that’s on his jaw, sliding it down until it’s slotted firmly around his neck. Soap sucks in air sharply, but doesn’t move—but he only jolts into movement when Ghost’s other hand moves to his waist, catches on his belt. Then he jumps, twists like a caught animal.
Ghost just holds his neck tighter. The voice vibrates under the heel of his palm. “What are you do—”
“The fuck do you think I’m doing?” his own voice is quieter, flatter. “Shut the fuck up and hold still.”
Soap doesn’t. He starts fighting instead.
Then again, fighting is probably too strong a word. Soap does a mediocre job of shoving him away, clumsy and badly planned to an extent that probably isn’t explainable by the alcohol. He gets himself free, but he makes no attempt to incapacitate Ghost, no real attempt to quickly put distance between them. He’s barely on his feet before Ghost regains a hold on him and pushes him back down with almost pitiful ease.
Thing is, if he had really tried? Ghost would likely have still subdued him, just to make a point. But he probably would have let Soap go after that. Would have let the sergeant write the whole thing off as a joke, let him craft whatever internal explanation made him feel better. But it would have been over. Pure physical domination is for elsewhere; it isn’t what Ghost wants here.
But Soap doesn’t fight like that. He’s clearly afraid, but it’s not the fear that is stopping him—Ghost knows he has been through much worse. It’s something else: denial or trust, or some other hidden thing that keeps him still, even as Ghost slides his hand back around his neck, squeezes harder. His pulse is fast under his fingers; Soap’s eyes are wide, almost dazed.
“Too. Late,” Ghost repeats firmly, giving another rough squeeze for emphasis, and this time when he lets go of Soap’s neck and goes for his clothes, Soap stays still.
Ghost starts to strip him of his combats, upper body first. It’s partly for the sake of actually getting the clothes off, partly just to enjoy watching the reaction. Soap isn’t physically resisting, but he’s not passive, either: he has the stiff posture and frozen expression of someone working extremely hard to fight down utter panic. Ghost has to admire the fact that the sergeant is still doing pretty well at it.
Only when Ghost starts undoing the other man's belt does his composure crack slightly: now he grabs at Ghost’s hands, breathing deep and babbling about something.
“Stop talking,” Ghost growls at him. “Help me with your boots.”
It must sound harsh enough for Soap to follow the command right away, or maybe he just wants the reprieve from Ghost’s hands. He bends down stiffly, starts to unlace his boots. His fingers are steady as he works. Maybe a part of him is still in denial.
Ghost pulls his own gloves off while he watches, puts them carefully into his side pocket. In front of him, Soap has removed his boots and socks; then he hesitates only for a moment, glancing sideways at him as Ghost simply continues to stare at him. Then he ducks his head, starts on his own trousers without even being told. His hands stay steady, even though he looks like he’s on the verge of hyperventilating.
He sets the clothing he’d removed neatly aside, and then sits upright on the bed, only in his underwear now. Soap is not looking at him, flushed red all down his front. He can see his chest and abdomen moving with his breathing, kept slow and deep by sheer effort.
Ghost only admires for a second, then moves quickly: he pulls the nearly-naked man up into his lap, wrapping one arm around his torso, and then immediately moves his other hand across his stomach, down into the waistband of his boxers.
The speed of it must shock him. “Ghost," he says. "Ghost, I—”
“Shh,” he says. His hand is wrapped around him already, under the waistband; Soap’s skin soft and warm under his fingertips, and now he establishes a grip and then gives a good squeeze.
Soap’s upper body jerks like he’s trying to curl forward and get himself off his lap. But Ghost has got a good hold on him now, and again, Soap doesn’t even really fight. He squirms, but does nothing else. Ghost loosens his grip and then continues to paw at him, his hand still hidden under the fabric of his underwear. Somehow it seems more humiliating to touch him like this, rather than just stripping him fully naked. Ghost has seen him naked before, after all: this is not so much about seeing him or feeling him, it’s about having him like this: shaking, embarrassed, still fighting to keep it together. Soap shrinks back from the rough stroking, but he can only push himself harder against Ghost’s own clothed hips. He’s still trying to breathe normally; Ghost can feel the steady inhale and exhale under the arm that's trapping the other man's torso.
Ghost maintains a comfortable hold on the other man’s soft dick, starts to move his hand in a steadier rhythm. Once the obvious discomfort eases it’s a surprisingly short time before he feels it start to harden, swelling with blood.
Soap has to feel it too, and this is what seems to finally set him off again: he starts squirming, pushing forward and grabbing at him. “Ghost, no,” he says. “I don’t—I need to—”
“You’re fine,” Ghost says.
But he shakes his head, squirming more. The next sudden twist of his body almost has him headbutting Ghost in the face. “No,” he whines again, pushing at the his arms, and—for fuck’s sake, fine. Ghost yanks his hand out of his waistband, and shoves Soap forward off of his lap: there’s enough sudden force to unbalance him and send him onto to the floor next to the bed.
The sergeant catches himself just enough to make the fall slightly less undignified: he turns, looks up at Ghost, alert from the sudden shock. His face is flushed, bright with sweat.
“Fuck off, then,” Ghost says down to him.
Soap is slowly pushing himself into a sitting position: he looks like he’s not sure he had heard right.
“Leave,” Ghost clarifies. “Not listening to you sit there and beg. Grab your kit and leave.”
The disgust he puts into his voice makes the sergeant almost visibly cringe. Ghost is being manipulative, and he knows it. But fuck it, this is not what he wanted. It’s not even an issue of rules: he wants Soap to take some responsibility for himself and what happens to him. Begging without fighting back is fucking pathetic, and Ghost is not going to hide that fact.
Soap has stopped meeting his eye. He reaches one hand down to readjust his underwear, like he has to make sure it’s still covering everything. Then he just exhales, glaring past him at the blank wall next to the bed. He doesn’t move. Ghost waits, watches as Soap tries to steal a quick glance at him like he’s trying to read his expression.
“Well?” Ghost prompts. “I told you. You can go.”
Soap flinches like the words physically hurt him. Even so, Ghost figures it’s fifty-fifty whether he’ll stay or leave. Ghost barely cares at this point, honestly, so long as he stops being so irritating.
“You leaving?” Ghost asks.
The small room is very quiet. Finally, Soap gives a tiny shake of his head.
Ghost doesn’t rub it in, or question the answer. Doesn’t wait for further assent, either: he just reaches down and hauls the other man up by one arm, settling him back onto his lap.
It’s familiarity more than anything, he figures. Soap is accustomed to being intimidated and physically hurt. Rejection, on the other hand, is something new and painful.
Ghost goes for the only piece of clothing still covering the other man, pushing his underwear down now, tucking the waistband down under his balls.
Soap cringes again, curling forward. But then he glances over his shoulder, like he’s looking at him for assurance, like he’s gone back convincing himself that it’ll be okay. That he made the right decision.
Seeing that makes most of the irritated anger melt away. That type of attitude is the part of Soap he enjoys the most, and Ghost doesn’t want it to get destroyed, not if he can help it. He needs to go slow, needs to deal better with his own annoyance and impatience. For now, anyway.
So he’s gentler now, as he wraps his fingers around him again. “Shh,” he says. “Shh, it’s okay.” He kisses the back of Soap’s neck.
Soap is sweating, his skin flushed even across his nape. The shame is radiating off him like heat.
“It’s okay,” Ghost says again and Soap actually nods, a tiny movement.
Ghost had been wrong before, when he had been uncertain about whether Soap would stay. Of course Soap was always going to stay. He has always been good.
Still, he is surprised to feel how quickly Soap’s cock firms up in his hand, faster this time. He wouldn’t have expected it to happen so easily, especially after Soap had been drinking so much. Maybe it’s just because he’s young, or maybe he likes this more than he’s letting on.
“There you go,” Ghost says as he moves his hand over him, up and down. Soap has given up on trying to squirm away, and seems to have abandoned any mental resistance, too: he just goes slack on top of him, lets it happen. Soon Ghost feels him thrusting into his hand, matching the rhythm with small movements of his own hips.
He’s a smart kid. Must realise that this decision has been made for him.
Ghost pulls him in closer, kisses his neck and the back of his head again before he adjusts his free arm so that his hand is back around Soap’s neck, pressing down only lightly against the skin there. Soap has turned his head away, but Ghost finds that he’s less interested in seeing his face now, anyway. He can absorb far more from hearing him, feeling all the reactions that go through his body. He closes his eyes, his hand still cupping the other man’s throat. It’s nice like this, taking in every small movement he makes, letting everything move through him like it’s traveling through his own skin. It’s something unusual, actually touching another person like they’re both alive. So different from what has usually come before, and what will return after: grey, deadened, unimportant.
It probably takes Soap a long time to come, but Ghost doesn’t mind, barely notices the passage of time. He tunes out, drifts for a while in the empty quiet of the room, feeding off the sensation of Soap surrendered and slumped against him, the other man’s body heavy and strong on top of Ghost’s own.
He is drawn back to attention when Soap makes a pained noise, tensing up in his arms. His cock jerks in Ghost’s hand, his fingers gripping into the side of Ghost’s thigh through the fabric. Most of the cum ends up on his own stomach: when Ghost opens his eyes and looks down over Soap’s shoulder it’s vivid, shiny and obscene in the overhead light.
Ghost keeps pulling at his cock until he is moaning in pain, and then finally lets go, wiping the wetness that had got on his own hand on the outside of Soap’s underwear, which is still covering most of his hips.
Soap is limp on top of him, twitching, his skin burning. The room around them is silent.
There would be something amusing about just finishing this all now, and letting Soap go back to his own room like this. Having him walk back with that sticky mess on his skin, all fucked up with the knowledge that he was the only one to get off, that Ghost had stayed dressed and normal throughout. This thought would have been enough to satisfy Ghost for now—but then Soap shifts against him and speaks.
“Ghost,” he says, his voice sounding broken. There’s a questioning tone to the word, like he is asking for comfort.
It hits him hard, forces the decision. Soap is not ignoring him or pretending to be somewhere else. He wants something from the person who just did this. Doesn’t the dumb kid realise he’s practically dragging Ghost further into this?
Oh, well. Ghost probably would have been too selfish to let him go like this, anyway.
“Shh,” he says: “Get these off.” He yanks at the waistband of his underwear for encouragement. “And then stand up.”