#09 ghost

He toes the line of insubordination until it’s blurred. It already fucking is. On better days MacTavish might find it amusing. On worse ones he barks at Riley to follow him into his office because mutts don’t learn under a lenient hand.

MacTavish throws himself into his chair and with one pointed flick of his eyes has Riley dropping to his knees in front of him.

“Need to put your fuckin’ mouth to better use,” he grumbles to himself, fighting with his belt, and Riley is eagerly nodding like he’s expecting a fucking reward for his act today.

He crawls forward on hands and knees, eyes locked on where MacTavish is pulling his cock out of his trousers. He stumbles over himself as he rucks his mask up, left crooked over the bridge of his nose in his haste.

MacTavish stops him with his boot on Riley’s shoulder. Shoves him back. Riley falls onto his haunches with a whine. Has the fucking audacity to frown at him. MacTavish knocks his boot firmly against Riley’s chest to make a point before spreading his knees wide and tilting his hips up into his fist.

He gives Riley a good look as he strokes up, showing off the girth of his cock that Riley can barely fit his mouth around. Hums low in his throat as he strokes down, runs his thumb over the head in a pattern Riley usually draws with his tongue.

Riley sits still on his knees, hands on his thighs and fingers digging in harshly – behaving for the first time today. His back is tense and ramrod straight. He licks his lips and stares unblinkingly as MacTavish jerks himself off.

It’s dry and rough and almost hurts to go any faster. MacTavish could use the saliva Riley is drooling but won’t. He spits in his own palm, wraps his hand back around his cock, and makes the grip a little tighter, more like Riley’s tight fucking hole, but he’s not going to admit it to him that’s what he’s thinking about.

The spit loses its effect quickly, a slight burn underneath, but he likes it a little painful. He likes it more painful for Riley. And watching how intently Riley is staring, how hard he’s fighting to keep his hands still on his own thighs, how there’s saliva dripping from his mouth down to his chin, it looks like they’re finally getting somewhere.

“Open,” MacTavish orders.

Riley’s mouth falls open, tongue stretched expectantly out, head eagerly tilted up. His eyes flick between MacTavish’s face and his cock, presumptuous and enthusiastic. Thick strings of saliva connect his tongue and lips, and he makes a high whine at the back of his throat when precum beads at the head of MacTavish’s cock.

He speeds up the pace of his hand, the wet sound of it filling the room, meets Riley’s blown-open eyes, his pupils dark and dilated, and grunts as he bucks his hips into the tight channel of his fist. Riley’s tongue is spread wide and flat, an easy target to aim for.

MacTavish comes on the floor right in front of him.

Riley whines loud and distraught, watching the thick ropes of cum land on the ground. As noisy and obnoxious now as he has been throughout the day, wailing as he is. He tilts forward as if to try to catch some of his release in his mouth, as if to close the distance. At one firm look from MacTavish, he snaps back into place. 

MacTavish slows the pace of his hand as he works himself through it, the tension and irritation of the day leaving in a contented sigh as the final spurts of cum land in the small puddle on the floor.

Riley makes a sound like a beg, an incoherent, unintelligible moan. Yet he keeps his mouth open because MacTavish hasn’t given him the order to close it yet.

And he doesn’t give it now either, as he gives a final slow, indulgent downstroke, a last drop of cum sliding down the side of his cock that he ignores but Riley doesn’t, longingly following it with his eyes.

MacTavish tucks himself away in his trousers, nonchalant and careless, acting like he can’t see Riley’s pleading stare, like he can’t hear the distraught way he whines. He glances up only briefly and Riley shuts up at the set to his brow. But his eyes remain pleading, silently begging. Desperate enough that a tear wells up, rolls down his cheek and into the mask.

His mouth is still open, staring at MacTavish like there’s still something he might get, even as MacTavish leans back in his chair and meets his wet, pleading eyes with a condescendingly raised brow.

“Go on,” he nods at the ground, “that’s the best you’re going to get.”

Riley hesitates. He frowns under the mask and when he blinks, he squeezes another tear over his waterline.

But MacTavish doesn’t relent, doesn’t offer anything else, so he slowly lowers himself towards the floor under MacTavish’s firm look and stretches out his tongue to swipe over his cum on the floor. A small kitten lick. 

“Properly.”

MacTavish steps his boot on Riley’s head. Grinds down until his cheek is pressed into the patch of cum, and keeps him there. Riley’s eyes flick up, watery and shiny, as he reaches out his tongue to swipe over the floor. It’s a difficult angle and Riley drags his face along the ground to get to all of it.

He lets out small, pitiful whines as he laps at his cum, staring at MacTavish like he doesn’t know what he did to end up here. MacTavish uses it as an excuse to press the sole of his boot hard into the side of Riley’s face. Still kneeling, the position leaves his back arched, ass in the air.

He laps at the floor until it’s clean, some of MacTavish’s cum in his mouth, the other half imbued into his mask. MacTavish waits until he sees Riley lick up the final drops and swallow before lifting his boot from Riley’s head. A clear grey dusty footprint remains on his mask.

Riley stays with his cheek pressed to the ground, prostrating himself, and with his watery eyes and pink lips and the mark of MacTavish’s boot on his face, he makes for a pretty enough sight that it makes up for some of the annoyance he’s caused him today.

“Stay there for a bit. Maybe I’ll let you clean my boots.”

But Roach has been good, he’s pretty sure. He hasn’t broken any rules, he’s acted nice, and he’s standing as straight as he can, his head obediently placed in MacTavish’s hand to pull him closer by. He’s looking over Roach with that stern, keen stare, like he can see right through him.

“You’ve done well, Roach, aye?”

He isn’t sure if the question is rhetorical, but he nods anyway, a quick and shallow dip of his head so not to displace MacTavish’s hand gripping his jaw. He has, he thinks. Hopes. Really, really hopes. He can’t disappoint MacTavish, he’s tried so hard, he can’t–

“Good boy, Roach.”

He sucks in a sharp gasp. Feels the words washing over him. His eyes roll back.

Roach wakes up on the floor.

The first thing he registers is something soft under his head.

His brows furrow as he blearily blinks his eyes open, squinting up at the ceiling. He’s lying down on the ground, squinting up at the two figures blotting out the light.

“Hey, Roach?” Ghost pats him on the cheek. Roach hums vaguely in response as the world comes back into focus.

Ghost is hovering over him, kneeling on one side, and MacTavish is on the other. It’s his palm that’s cradling his head, keeping it from the hard floor.

“Alright, lad?” MacTavish asks, looking unusually concerned when Roach meets his eyes. He feels himself flushing darkly – he made both of them so worried for him, and for such a stupid reason, just for fainting.

“What happened?” Ghost’s palm lands on his collarbone, thumb digging in as if trying to check for his pulse, which is beating too fast under the attention. Roach looks between them with a self-conscious laugh, though he can’t hold eye contact with either of them for any longer than a second.

“I– I really liked what you called me.”

MacTavish’s brows rise up. He shares a glance with Ghost over Roach’s body, both of them looking particularly incredulous. Roach blushes darker, his cheeks way too warm, unsure whether he’s somehow fucked this up – but MacTavish’s palm is still gently cradling his head and Ghost’s hand eases where it’s set on his chest. When MacTavish looks down to meet his eyes again, he’s somewhere between surprised and concerned.

“Are you going to faint every time I tell you that you’ve been good for me?”

Roach feels another shiver race up his spine at the words, even if it is just a question. He smiles up at him, shrugs lightly.

He doesn’t take off the mask after he pushes Ghost against the door forcefully enough to leave him breathless. He still smells of smoke and gunpowder, sweat and dirt, but neither of them care as MacTavish kisses him over the mask, pressing their mouths together hard enough to feel the outline of his lips despite the fabric, harder still to feel his teeth, his tongue.

Ghost parts his lips, licks at the fabric. MacTavish can feel the heat of it, the wetness of it as their shared saliva imbues into the cotton.

It’s messy. Neither of them give a fuck. Ghost has six minutes before he has to be on the tarmac. It’ll take a minute to get there if he jogs. That leaves MacTavish with five.

He knows he was the one to sign off on the mission, but he still digs his fingers into Ghost’s hips, forces him against the door and presses their bodies together despite the sharp edges of gear between them.

Ghost tries to bite at his mouth but catches only fabric. MacTavish only feels it because he’s licking at it at the exact same time. They’re so unsynchronised. It doesn’t matter.

He can feel that Ghost’s hard against his thigh, so he positions them better, nudges his leg between Ghost’s. Tries to press his fingerprints onto his skin through layers of fabric as he guides Ghost to rut against his leg.

Ghost’s gloved hands dig into the sore spots at his collarbones, hanging on as his hips jerk forward. Out of rhythm with their uncoordinated kisses. Frantic and rabid like it hurts.

Yet he’s making such sweet sounds, small wet gasps and cut-off moans, grunts as he tries to find a better angle, though all he’s really grinding against is the seam of his trousers and the firmness of MacTavish’s thigh.

They don’t have much time left. MacTavish isn’t gonna separate just to check. Just coaxes Ghost to thrust into him at a faster pace, nudges his leg up higher to give him more friction, more pressure.

If he really runs, he can make it to the plane in thirty seconds.

MacTavish swallows all of his little whimpers. Doesn’t let his mouth go when he tilts his head up to gasp for breath. Presses his skull against the door with just his mouth. It must hurt how MacTavish is shoving his thigh up and up. It hurts how Ghost’s vest is digging into his skin. He hopes it leaves marks. He hopes he leaves marks.

Ghost’s body goes tense. His hips jolt forward against his thigh. A full body shudder runs over him, and MacTavish feels every tremble with how he’s pressed himself up against him.

He nudges his leg up harder just to pull another whine and tremble from him. Grinds his crotch against Ghost’s hip, gives him a taste.

Then pulls back and spins Ghost around to push him through the door, sends him off to his next mission.

Fifty seconds. He can make it.

Ghost arrives at the hangar with a wet spot over his mask and slight limp to his gait. No one can see his blush or the way his lips are bruised.

In eighteen hours, they’ll be gone. In eighteen hours and thirty-one minutes, they’ll be refreshed.