You see, that whole world of possibility thing—it included the good possibilities, yes, but also the bad ones. Among the bad ones were the “eh, that kinda sucks” ones and also the “ah damn, my neck’s been twisted and i’m dead now” ones, so naturally Soap was wound a little tight. Sue him.

And Ghost, the fucker, standing there all puffed up and pissed-looking, taking up half the damn room, did nothing to calm Soap’s nerves. In fact, his psyche was dry heaving even harder which made it an absolute bastard to find the words needed to break the ice. This was all internal, though. On the outside, Soap appeared to just be…standing there. Waiting. For what, exactly, was anyone’s guess.

 “Fuck,” Ghost said, graciously breaking the silence. Unfortunately, his tone was undoubtedly negative. The word “exhausted” came to mind, bolstered by how he deflated like a burst pool floatie. He took a step forward into the already-limited space and began explaining himself. “I reckoned we’d have to discuss this eventually—“

Soap made to cut him off, to, y’know, cut to the chase, but Ghost held out a hand as if to verbally say “down, boy” to an overzealous mutt. Apt.

“save me the bullshit about the bullshit intel, Soap. You’re a terrible liar and you’re even worse when you’re nervous,” he said, raising his brows to send a nice, pointed glance Soap’s way. 

This was a lot for Ghost. A lot of words, a lot of emotion. Soap was almost impressed. He just needed to mention—

“If you got me alone to apologize, fuck. You don’t—” Ghost sighed. “Last night was on me.”

“Ghost, it’s fine,” Soap urged, sensing his in was right around the corner, was practically buzzing with it. Waiting his turn to speak was always a struggle, especially now.

Ghost scoffed before Soap had the chance to move onto Sentence #2. “Is it? I went fucking mute when shit didn’t go to plan”

“Okay, that was a little weird,” Soap conceded, “but what if it didn’t matter?” 

Ghost’s face screwed into the very picture of confusion as the question flapped around his head like a disoriented bird. 

“Like,” Soap said, widening his eyes for emphasis, “ really didn’t matter?”

That just left Ghost looking even more confused, and this time, a little pissed about it. “Christ, Johnny, throw me a fucking rope, what the hell are you on about?”

A bleeding spotlight might as well have ve flooded the floor, velvet curtains might as well have parted. Fucking showtime. Finally. Soap cleared his throat in preparation for the opening line.

“Alright, no more beating around the bush, then. I’ve got the hots for you, obviously ,” he added as a harsh aside, “and I was pretty fucking pumped to do something about it last night, and pretty fucking gutted that we didn’t.” 

Now it was his turn to hit Ghost with the “ down, boy” hand. 

“Not to sound desperate, but eh, who gives a fuck? I was willing to do what I needed to do to make this…” he waved his hands in front of his chest, juggling for the right word, “viable. Right. So uh,” Soap slapped his hands together in an attempt to distract himself from the blush that was cooking his face to medium-well, “I. Fuck. I—“

“Spit it out,” Ghost barked, sounding more desperate than angry. 

Well, now or never, baby.

3… 2… 1…

“I fingered my ass.”

The words tumbled out with the elegance of a drunken body falling down a flight of stairs. Less of a said and was more of a shouted . Well, it was more of a fi nal exhale of someone getting boa-constricted to death . 

Soap hadn’t the slightest how Ghost was taking the news. Sure, he had balls to deliver it, but not so much as to watch it land. Or miss. He didn’t plan on finding out until he was finished monologuing. With the key point out in the open, it was slightly easier to flesh out the details. 

“I meant it when I said I wanted you, and I thought maybe, if you’d only have me one way, I’d try it. So yeah, fingered my ass just to see, and as generous Lady Luck would have it,” Soap sucked an inhale— wait, this sounded familiar . might as well ride the wave—and carried on, “not only am I open to the possibility of you fucking my ass into next week, I’m actually gagging for it. This is all to say—”

“Soap.”

It was like the sound was ripped out of Ghost’s chest in a bloody fist. Soap finally looked up and heavens to fucking Betsy, Ghost was in a state. Wild eyes, heaving chest, the works. Ideally, probably, he was horny as sin, but furious wasn’t exactly out of the question just yet. It still wasn’t out of the question when Ghost surged forward, hand snatching out to fist the front of Soap’s shirt, to yank him close. 

“Are you telling me,” he said in a wrecked whisper, his stare boring holes through Soap’s corneas, “that you left my office, here, to go off and fuck your fingers just so you could fuck me ?”

“Aye.” Soap’s dick was moments away from tearing through the front of his trousers. “That’s precisely what I’m telling ya.” No point in denying it, not like he felt like he needed to.

—-

And his intuition was right. In a pleasing repetition of history, they were kissing just like the night prior, the same ferocity and desperation, but with certainty this time. 

Ghost’s hands bracketed either side of Soap’s head, thumbs stroking down the hollows of his cheeks like he was something precious, something Ghost would be damned to lose. “You’re out of your fucking mind,” he said with a voice full of awe. 

“Nothing new there,” Soap hit back. Fuck, his own voice sounded just about unfamiliar—lower and raspier than usual. He thought shit like that only happened in porn. Nah, your voice actually does go all sexy when you’re turned on beyond reason. And he was, holy fuck he was. 

He kissed Ghost for the first time just yesterday, but it still felt novel, still was driving him completely, absolutely mad. Fuck. The tongue that licked onto his—that was Ghost’s . The lips that kissed so rough, the teeth that nipped against him, the fucking breathy groans, they all belonged to Ghost and were all the more delicious for it. 

  It was a heady thing, hooking up with the man you’d been pining for since you met him, and now that he had a taste of it, Soap reckoned he was well on his way to addiction. Yeah, he’d give up everything he had just to keep that hand pressed to the low curve of his back, to feel Ghost hard through his trousers, how he rolled his hips. The sensation was reason enough, but knowing who was making it all happen made it worth dying for. 

Just tasting tasting it was hardly enough—after the nonsense of the past 14 or so hours, he wanted to fucking devour it, get sick on it. He wanted to overindulge in everything. If he didn’t get a hand on or in him, fast, he was going to lose his damn mind.

The clothing was a notable impediment, so Soap led by example and pulled away for just a moment to tug his shirt collar-first over his head, glancing to see if Ghost was following suit as he unbuttoned the fly on his trousers. 

“C’mon now, Ghost. Catch up,” he teased, and albeit with a derisive snort, Ghost obeyed. What a good boy, Soap thought, or maybe they were just on the same page for once, because surely, the starved gaze Ghost dragged across his naked skin was mirrored in his own eyes. Hot, hot damn.

Soap had seen his fair share of fine bodies, and Ghost’s definitely was one of them, but none of them garnered such a visceral reaction. Lily-white skin— almost delicate-looking—pulled over the biggest, baddest muscles, marked over with scars and cut through at the arms with bulging blue-tinged veins. A marble statue, the prettiest thing on earth, but fierce. Deadly. The duality wiped all sense from his brain for a hot second and in a rare occurrence, he was actually speechless. 

He had seen that capable body work with such precision, and it was going to be his, at least for the night. A pathetic, unbidden moan was all he had to offer by way of assessment.

Ghost smirked, the aggravating bastard. “Was gonna ask if you liked what you saw, but I don’t think I need to.” 

Soap wanted to rip his head off and eat him alive.

Instead, he told him to fuck off and let his hands do what they craved to do, one at the base of Ghost’s skull, the other at his waist, both wrenching him in impossibly close for another kiss.

“Gonna lose the mask?” Soap asked, feeling how the smoothness of skin, pliable fat, and solid muscle layered together, so perfectly grabbable. 

Ghost pulled away, which fucking sucked, but Soap could manage if only for the thumb that took the place of lips, stroking against the lower, sliding smooth through spit. “Only if you show me.” 

“Show you what?” 

Surely Ghost knew what kind of damage he was inflicting when he leaned so close—because apparently they could’ve been closer. Didn’t feel that way—and whispered with heavy, humid breath right into Soap’s ear, “Show me how you touched yourself last night.” And that fucking look .

Soap’s mouth went dry. How the hell did he do that? How did he set Soap on fire with just his eyes? They looked so fucking hungry and Soap was more than willing to be eaten up.

“I want you to open yourself up for me again. Get on the bed.”

Hot and holy hell. 

The command was welcomed because lord knew Soap had any sense left to direct himself in that moment. He followed the orders— like a good boy— and waited until Ghost’s eyes were back on him before he peeled off his boxer briefs. Why pass on the chance to put on a nice show? 

And fuck if it wasn’t worth it to see Ghost’s reaction, his full reaction, unbidden by that fucking mask. 

Aquiline nose and high cheekbones awash in blushing freckles joined what he already knew—gorgeous, absolutely tortured brown eyes and soft, parted lips—to paint the prettiest picture he’d ever seen. Take a photo of it and paste it in the dictionary under “John MacTavish’s Type”, synonyms including “perfection” and “shit worth dying for”. Ghost’s face was delicate and rugged, just like his body, and fuck, it had Soap feeling shy , like he needed to collapse into himself and hide, but at the same time, he knew how he looked and wanted to fall open, offer everything he had for the taking.

Confidence and apprehension warred in his mind, but he opted for the former, staring down his nose at Ghost as he stroked himself lazily, like he wasn’t gagging to get himself off right and there. “Got lotion or something?”

“Nah, just this lube,” Ghost drawled, throwing the squeeze bottle onto the bed and doing a way better job of seeming nonchalant. “Hope it will suffice.”

Soap smirked, “God, you’re fucking obnoxious.”

The bed dipped under Ghost’s weight as he settled himself between Soap’s legs, drawing his hand firm up and down the length of them. “And so are you, making me wait like this.”

“Anticipation, darling,” Soap explained. With a concerted effort, his hands shook only slightly as brought the tube up to uncap with his teeth, and then to squeeze its contents onto his fingertips. Ghost had nice taste in lube—perfectly slick and heavy to ease the grip along the length of his cock. He went slow because under the weight of Ghost’s eyes, the simple touch of his own hand brought him dangerously close to spilling. 

He distracted himself. “I started with something I was used to,” he explained, addressing that puzzled look on Ghost’s face, “last night. To warm myself up.” The tactic was working like a charm, and he could feel himself relax despite his racing heart. “Nice lube,” he remarked. A very normal thing to say.

“I like it.”

“Use it often?”

“Yeah.”

“Must make things messy, though.”

“I like it better that way,” Ghost said, “Messy.” His voice was husky and strained, probably not from the exertion of palming himself over his boxers, but from pure, unbidden want. Soap could see the outline of him in stunning detail, even through the fabric, and fuck, he was huge. So much for distracting himself. Imagining Ghost tugging at that gorgeous cock, filling the room with heaving breaths and wet sounds had Soap in a special kind of hell. 

Emboldened by the knowledge that he’d soon have that for himself, Soap ran the middle finger of his left hand along his cock, getting it slick before pressing it against his hole.  

“That so?” he asked breathlessly. He looked to Ghost for a response, but the man was focused on the hand stroking slow and steady circles between his legs. 

“Fuck, put it in,” Ghost groaned. 

Not how Soap imagined hearing those words at the start of all this, but it sent a jolt through his core nonetheless. 

Ghost’s voice saying those things.

A desperate voice.

Ghost’s desperate voice.

Desperate for him. 

It was too soon, probably, but Soap slicked the rest of his finger and acquiesced anyway. The stretch was a lot, had him groaning around the discomfort, but he swirled his fist over the head of his cock—a bit of pleasure to cut the pain while he adjusted. 

Ghost cursed and squeezed at the base of his cock, holding himself off. Well, didn’t that just go to Soap’s head? 

“Fuck, tight little thing can hardly take a finger? I’m gonna ruin you.”

Please do.

“Let me see you then,” Soap urged, as if he didn’t already know that Ghost was packing. He needed to see all of it. 

The way Ghost’s abs clenched and stretched as he shifted to fully undress was nothing short of pornographic, but that headtrip was quickly subsumed. Writhing swathes of shadow collected in the dips of muscle, pooling along the handsomest v-cut to guide Soap’s eyes down. 

Fuck, why was his mouth watering? No fucking wonder Ghost walked around in the way that he did, unwavering confidence bordering on arrogance. He was experienced, competent, and had a dick straight from PornHub. 

“I think you’re right,” Soap admitted on a weak exhale.

Ghost huffed a knowing laugh when Soap quickly added another finger. 

By all rights, Soap knew he should be terrified. His first time and he’d be taking that ? But he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge—if anything, it spurred him on, forcing himself to relax around the stretch enough to manage a third. 

“Easy now,” Ghost chided, almost mocking. “I could watch this for hours.”

“Who says I’m rushing for you ?” Soap panted. He angled the pressure, bullying right into his prostate and what was too much quickly became not enough. This really was addictive, all of it—the burn just as much as the pleasure, syrupy sweet. He’d just about given up tempering out the pain with his right hand.

“So eager to get fucked? Careful, I’d hate to see you crying trying to take me.”

“Liar,” Soap shot back.

“Oh, come on now, Soap,” Ghost drawled with the same infuriating voice, “I want you to feel good.”

“And I want your dick in me. I’m ready.” He couldn’t wait a second longer, he really couldn’t. With a nod, he gestured for Ghost to come closer, “Don’t believe me? Feel for yourself.”

This would be it—up to that point, the only touch he’d received was his own. Watching as Ghost slicked his middle and index fingers, Soap fell completely, irreversibly drunk with the knowledge that Ghost would be inside him . Those cold fingers, foreign, pressed to his hole and he just about came right there. 

The gasp Ghost let out was almost shocked as he sunk in to the knuckle. “You weren’t joking,” he muttered, finding the spot he was looking for once the surprise passed, practically petting it. Better than Soap could, more an expert in this body than its owner. “Fuck, Soap.”

“Ghost, please,” Soap whined, because fuck his pride, fuck his ego, fuck everything. He was so, so close. “Please.”

That was all the convincing Ghost needed, it seemed, because after a flurry of motion, Soap cried out, the space between his legs lit white-hot. 

Mercy, Ghost was huge, impossibly huge, and Soap was going to die like this, twisting and writhing to distract from the sensation.

“Fuck, you alright?” Ghost asked, voice thick with concern, and bless him, he seemed to be making a concerted effort to not move in either direction, though it didn’t help much. His arms trembled where they were posted on either side of Soap’s head.

“Hah, fuck. Yeah, I’m good,” Soap hissed, manually forcing his lungs to breathe in-two-three, out-two-three. He shifted his hips, “I’ve had worse.” 

The near-scandalized look on Ghost’s face would have him hysterical if he wasn’t so distracted, “No, not like that, you idiot. I’ve been shot, stabbed. Are you forgetting you’re my first?”

Ha, apparently Ghost had, because he went stock still except for the pupils that expanded, eating up the rest of his eyes to leave something purely animalistic, like a shark.

“Fucking hell.”

Soap threw his head back and groaned, tugging at his flagging cock. He was fine. The pressure was easing up. “You can move,” he assured with a nod, and he meant it, “just be gentle as you deflower me.”

Ghost’s brows screwed together, eyes squeezed shut, and with an exhale, he eased his hips back, rocked them forward to press minutely deeper. “You can’t just—“ a punched out breath, “say shit like that.”

“Why?” Soap whispered, “like it too much?” 

“Yeah, I do. Fuck,” Ghost said, shifting his weight to sit back on his haunches. “Look at that, darling, you took me all the way in.”

Made sense. Soap could feel him in his lungs, but he still looked down and the sight, Ghost’s muscled hips pressed flush against him, how his own body stretched where they were joined, it knocked the breath right out of him. Soap had never seen anything hotter in his life, and it left him hard again, precum pooling at his navel. 

“Sitrep?”

“Fuck off,” Soap chuckled, jolting at the new sensation of laughing while stuffed full like that, “I’m solid.”

“I’m gonna move now,” Ghost warned. He looked so focused. It was almost sweet.

Fucking perfect. “Good before I kill you, eh?”

Soap should’ve known better than to mouth off, especially when he was so vulnerable, because Ghost took that as his cue to draw his hips back just to snap them forward.

Intense.

Fucking intense.

Not painful, just. A lot. It punched a high-pitched keen from Soap’s mouth, punched all words from his mind except for “more.” It slipped down his lips easily, flowed like spit.

“You’re fucking incredible,” Ghost praised between shallow breaths as he fucked Soap in earnest now, unencumbered by the arms wrapped around his shoulders, hanging on for dear life. “Sound so sweet when you’re getting fucked.”

Ghost was relentless, perfectly unlike Soap’s fingers in every way that mattered. The size of him alone pressed heavy against that sweet spot, had Soap moaning against each thrust, whining then when Ghost aimed against it. 

Soap was fucking ruined for it.

His fingers would never be enough, not ever again.

His fingers didn’t get him drunk like this, completely out of body but simultaneously more grounded than he’s ever been. His fingers couldn’t fuck him senseless, couldn’t wrench the most pathetic noises from his chest. 

Just Ghost, the fucking perfect piece of shit, glassy-eyed and flushed, lips bitten red, choking out the sweetest grunts. It was like he was made to fuck Soap into oblivion, every part of him. Even his fucking abs, slick with precum and sweat and lube, how they shifted against the length of Soap’s aching cock. 

“Ghost, fuck,” Soap managed, “I’m so close. I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” Ghost breathed, not slowing his pace even as he lowered onto a forearm, twisting his fingers into Soap’s hair to force their eyes to meet. “Come on then, come for me. Wanna feel it.”

That fucking voice, whatever it said, he’d do.

Someone was moaning—screaming, really—maybe he was, his voice another thing out of his control now, just like his vision, like his body that rolled, clenched and unwound as he drowned under his release. 

Ghost looked so utterly wrecked when Soap came to, sucking greedy breaths through his gritted teeth as his rhythm failed him. “Fucking perfect,” was all Soap could think, begging silently to feel what it was like to have someone finish in him, unbelieving that it’d be Ghost.

“Please. Need it,” he begged, hoping Ghost knew what he meant. 

“Johnny”

Hips slammed against his ass, stayed there, and fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Soap could fucking feel Ghost’s cock pulse, feel as it filled him up.

His fingers could never. 

Ghost collapsed on top of him, heavy, heaving and sweaty, and Soap hoped the weight would crush him to death.