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On paper, there’s an imbalance of power between the two. It’s not just rank alone, the fact that Ghost is Soap’s superior, a little higher in the loose chain of command of the 141. It’s also age and experience– both in the field and in life in general. Ghost has seen things, survived things that hardened him in ways he hopes Soap will never have to experience. No need for equality there.
From an outsider’s perspective, what they have is inappropriate at best, dangerous at worst. Obedience has been drilled into their heads a long time ago. Following orders without question. Accepting authority bias. Trust.
Soap is supposed to follow his every word without thinking about it, not unlike a perfectly trained dog.
In reality, Soap has Ghost collared and leashed, hanging off his lips in reverence and admiration, at his beg and mercy. It’s hard to remember when exactly Johnny’s cold hands wormed their way through his skin and pried open his ribs. Coaxed by whispered promises, they cracked and gave way to his gentle insisting and they bared Simon’s heart, black and rotten and falling apart, for him to take and mend and never return.
But it hasn’t always been like this.
At first, they rubbed each other the wrong way. Soap had a way of questioning his authority that never really questioned his position. And Ghost, fearful of losing control, had treated him more harshly than anyone else.
But Ghost’s devotion was inevitable. Really, he was doomed from the start, from the moment Soap dared to quip back at Simon, not Ghost, and earned himself a kick in the gut for his troubles.
Realistically, Soap never really treated Ghost differently than he did anyone else, which was a novelty in and of itself. Usually people regard Ghost like a ticking time bomb, or like a rubber band stretched just a little too far, like he’s expected to snap any second and take everyone else in his vicinity down with him. Collateral damage.
Younger men part their way for him, older men keep him at a safe distance. Even Price sometimes handles him with kid gloves, and it only ever serves to make the situation worse and disregards the fact that he doesn’t want to be treated softly, or kindly, but like the monster he is.
Soap had knocked on his shoulder and touched him when everyone else would take a step back. Soap would tug on his leash and bring him back down to earth. Never more than an arm’s length between them.
Ghost has spent a lot of his time watching Soap, like a believer would stare up at the cross and take in his saviour, he who died to free him of his sins. Ghost has seen Soap being friendly in his own, unapologetic way, he has seen him get accepted into group dynamics because he fits so easily. He’s seen the way he comforts people, and the way they naturally gravitate around him, and flock to him like moths to a flame.
Sometimes, Soap indulges them. Ghost knows, because he’s seen.
Ever since he was a kid, Ghost has learned to move about silently. Not to draw any attention. To evade imminent danger. More often than not, it’s a good thing, something that’s surely kept him alive a little longer. But on some rare occasions, Ghost hoped he could make his presence known more easily.
Like when he’s sweat-soaked, fresh from the gym, desperate for a hot shower, and the sounds echoing through the locker room sound much more heated than a shower should get. There’s nothing wrong with rubbing one out, and Ghost chalks it up to being just that, generous enough to turn and grant a little privacy, until he hears the second voice. And recognises it.
His first reaction is to freeze in his tracks, and wait. It takes a moment for the voice to pick up again, after sucking in a sharp breath, and before, Ghost could’ve called it wishful thinking, but now, it was clear.
It’s a curse, and a slur, and some encouragement in an accent so familiar it makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. He knows he shouldn’t. But he finds himself creeping closer either way.
There are many scenarios Ghost has imagined Soap in. With blankets pooling around his waist and a soft grin on his face on a lazy winter morning. Buried in his arms, cold and lying in a sticky red puddle, eyes distant. Hazy-eyed with pleasure, writhing in his embrace, so close to the breaking point.
Every vile thing to be mentioned has already been a thought in Ghost’s head, but nothing prepares him for the real sight of it.
Johnny, with his legs spread, leaning back on the bench, with unbothered ease and confidence, like the sculpture of a Roman emperor. Hand fisted in the hair in front of him, guiding the pliant mouth up and down his length, coating it in spit and precum so that it drizzles down between his legs and coats his balls where they’re held in reverent hands.
His thick, fuzzy thighs flexing periodically, stuffing himself just a little further into the tight heat surrounding him.
There’s a mean glint in his eyes, something challenging. Shockingly, they’re staring straight at Ghost, where he hovers in the shadows, frozen in his line of sight. He’s always been quiet, but Soap has always known where to look, when to listen. And oh, how he looked.
Straight through Ghost’s skin.
There’s a concerning half-chub forming in Ghost’s pants, becoming increasingly obvious, and Soap’s eyes do what his hands can’t, dragging over his body heatedly. Shamelessly. The meat of his thighs, the bulge of his arms, the swell of his chest.
Then, Soap pulls the mouth down just a little more harshly, and wiggles it around. The action coaxes a broken moan out of the mouth, and Ghost breathes out a similar whine that gets drowned in it. Horror washes over him. Nobody heard, but Soap knows.
Before he can see it all through, Ghost turns and resigns himself to going to bed sweaty instead. It doesn’t matter anyways, because he takes his time chasing that humiliating high of having been roped into Soap’s little game, and by the time he goes to sleep there’s cum drying on his stomach, saliva on his chest, and tears clinging to his lashes.
And with that day, the line between them had been crossed. And it was only a matter of waiting.
Waiting for Ghost to take his turn. Well. He didn’t become a sniper for nothing.
He knows he could just bite the bullet and approach Soap about it all heads on, but it lacks the excitement he so desperately craves. He wants Soap to want him, to need him, and there’s already a plan forming in his head.
Following the incident, Ghost does his best to not leave Soap’s side. Where the Scot goes, he follows. Sometimes he’s right behind him, other times he lags behind just a little, looming and imposing and putting his reputation to good use. It’s simple, really. He’s being a cockblock, and a damn good one at that.
Now that he’s properly on the lookout for it, there are many more people interested in Soap in one way or another. Few actively pursue him, but there are many lingering gazes, and subtle touches, and Soap seems to bask in them. In the attention, Ghost figures. A more primal part of his brain tries to tell him Soap should be satisfied with all of Ghost’s attention alone, and he pushes that train of thought in a box that should be unboxed at a more fun time.
With Ghost hovering, the gazes stop. The touches, too. There are weary eyes flickering over Soap’s shoulder to where he’s watching, warning, before the hands retreat. Ghost’s little spiel serves its purpose.
It drives Soap absolutely mad.
In the middle of a sentence, the guy Soap has been talking to trails off. A flicker to the side, and Ghost can see Soap’s shoulders dropping in annoyance.
“What?” he demands to know. When he gets no answer, he turns around himself, to throw a look over his shoulder, and spots Ghost leaning on a wall, staring them down.
Soap’s hands form a fist. He squeezes tightly, and gives in to his irritation, and turns to face Ghost fully.
Ghost faces him head on, an unspoken challenge. He swears Soap’s eye twitches. As if to compose himself, the younger man drags a hand across his face, pausing momentarily to give his temples a rub. Ghost imagines his own hand in its place, imagines trailing it lower, and pushing until he feels the cartilage crumble beneath the pressure of his palm.
He’s being obvious, for his standards at least, and Soap, always so finely tuned to every little one of Ghost’s tells, easily picks up on it.
They stare each other down. Ghost basks in the anger, the heat in Soap’s eyes, the promise of a rough time burning in the blue of his iris. Soap jerks his head to the side, not an open command, not in public like this, but an order nonetheless. A threat.
Silently, he follows Soap when he stomps out of the rec room, turns the same corner he does, eyes laser focused on the Scot’s neck, the muscle of it tight with frustration.
It’s his hunger and the building anticipation that gives a great advantage to Soap’s anger right now, who manages to stop and turn around swiftly, using both Ghost’s forward momentum and his own rotation to slam his elbow right into the taller man’s liver. The move is practised, and doesn’t miss its target.
All air is punched out of him, and Ghost finds himself stunned, spine protectively curling forward. He almost goes down on his knees willingly, but Johnny’s hands fist his balaclava with an iron-tight grip, tugging at the overgrown length of his hair, and pushes him harshly until his back hits the wall and his legs are crouching uncomfortably. He’s at eye level with Johnny, whose handsome face is contorted with anger.
Yes, Simon thinks, yesyesyes. He revels in the way it hurts.
“You little skank,” Johnny snarls. “Did ya have fun, hm? Riling me up?”
Lazily, Simon finds himself smirking behind the cover of his mask. “Dunno what you mean.”
Red hot pain blooms at the back of his skull when Johnny slams his head against the brick once more. A cruel smile tugs at Johnny’s eyes, but his voice sounds cold when he says, “See, I thought I was bein’ nice. Thought you might enjoy a li’l show, considering the only thing that’s up yer arse is a fucking stick, apparently.”
Simon wants to snort, but the fingers tighten, and he releases a sound much closer to a moan instead.
“I was being so nice. But you just can’t help it, can you? You want me all for yourself, can’t bear sharing me, so now you gotta ruin my fun, hm?”
Yes, he thinks. All mine.
Johnny’s free hand settles over his throat, the tips of his fingers teasing his jugular, feeling his heart jackhammering beneath his skin, still easily palpable through the layer of fabric.
“You’re an ungrateful little bitch,” Johnny decides, and his gaze softens just a little. “I’ve got a month worth of cum just for you.”
The moan that rips itself from the deep and dark part of Simon’s chest echoes through the hallway, and Simon is almost shocked enough to end it right then and there.
Soap is lightning fast and shoves his free hand into his mouth once he opens it, curling the digits and pressing the cotton into the back of his teeth, where it soaks up the saliva that’s threatening to drool out of Simon’s mouth.
Then, the hand tugging his hair leaves, and instead he’s jostled to the side. He pliantly follows the hand hooked on his mandible, and feels like a fish that’s been too gullible, or greedy, and now pays the price for its own foolishness. He’s positive Soap might gut him, and he’s even more certain he’d happily allow him to. His insides are made for Soap to fit.
There’s a door next to them, filled with spare bed sheets and pillowcases that Soap is pushing him into, and before he knows it, he’s on his knees, staring up at Soap, blinded. The lightbulb on the ceiling serves as a makeshift halo, and casts Simon into the shadow of the man before him. His mouth hangs open uselessly, the fingers in his mouth long gone.
Johnny regards the damp spot around his mouth like he would a foreign animal, curious, and unaware of the danger it holds. His hands pet around Simon’s temples in an almost reverent way. Simon stares up at him through his lashes, and if Johnny extended his knuckles, he’d give them a kiss. Instead, he nuzzles his head into the touch once it reaches his cheeks.
“You’re fading fast, L.t.,” Johnny whispers, and Simon recognises the tone for what it is. “I want you to tell me if you don’t want this, and I want you to tell me if you’d like to stop, too.”
Simon blinks at him, and hopes Johnny will find truth in his eyes when he admits, “I want you,” and promises, “I will.”
Johnny hovers just a little longer, before his fingers dip lower and tease around the frayed edge of his mask. In any other moment, Simon would have flinched. He’s not surprised Johnny’s fingers have found themselves there, and he knows, logically, that Johnny is giving him an easy out. A way to keep himself distanced, to hide the more vulnerable pits that make up who he is. He doesn’t take it.
Instead he gives a nod, more obvious than back at the rec room. No need for misinterpretation, his mind supplies. Johnny should know he’s into the game they play.
When the mask is tugged off, Simon’s eyes are covered for a second and he loses sight of the man before him. Once he can see him again, there’s that mean glint again, that delectable power, and a tight grip on his scalp that tugs him forward.
Without the balaclava covering his nose, Johnny’s musk is strong when he’s shoved into the Scot’s clothed crotch. He basks in the roughness of the denim on his skin, wills his eyes to stop burning from the shame of it all.
“Bet ya wanted a taste ever since you took a peek, huh?” Johnny taunts when he rubs the growing bulge in his pants against Simon’s opened lips. He moans, and the denim does little to muffle the sound. “Could’a just dropped on your knees right then and there, ‘s not like anyone woulda been surprised.”
The fabric against Simon’s cheek is warm and rough, and when Johnny pulls his head back with a forceful jerk of his wrist, he almost shivers from the loss.
“Open up, bitch,” Johnny says. There is a dangerous grin tugging at his lips. Obediently, Simon tips his head back and lets his tongue loll out of his mouth, eyes hazy and lips spit-slicked. The grin widens. And Johnny spits in his mouth.
His eyes want to squeeze shut when the shiver runs through him, but he forces himself to keep them open, even when they threaten to roll to the back of his head. Johnny tightly grips the hollow of his cheek to keep him from swallowing, to hold his head back when his stomach flexes and he tries curling forward in pleasure.
He lets himself be held where Johnny wants him to be and waits, patiently, even when the saliva threatens to spill.
The hand in his hair is long since gone, but he only realises when he hears the telltale clang of a buckle being undone. Curiously, he peers down the bridge of his nose, trying to get an eyeful of Johnny’s cock. His distraction earns him another wet spat of saliva to his cheek, and he flinches instinctively.
He almost wants to glare, but his last coherent thought leaves his cranium when the wet head of Johnny’s cock rubs the spit into his skin, mixing it with the hot precum pulsing from the slit. He’s never been so glad to be rendered speechless before. At this point, he probably couldn’t get out a sentence without begging Johnny to take him, and he’s not that desperate yet.
“Hope you’re worth the trouble,” comes Johnny’s remark once his cock rests on Simon’s plush lower lip. He wants to yell yes from the top of his lungs, but by now words have lost all meaning.
So instead, he tongues at Johnny’s frenulum, and revels in the shiver Johnny tries to suppress. Then Johnny’s hand buries itself in his hair again, and tugs him forward.
It’s perfect. Johnny is perfect. Hot, and wet, and salty on his tongue. Slowly, Johnny starts to move his hips, tugging Simon forward in tandem, until he buries himself deep into the back of his throat and the taller man sputters around his length.
It’s both of their saliva that runs down Johnny’s cock and slicks up his balls where they start smacking against his chin. The thought turns Simon absolutely insane, and there’s a depraved moan rumbling past his lips. He tries tonguing at that prominent vein that runs down the underside, but finds he’s quickly losing the necessary coordination.
Johnny’s hips stutter, and Simon wants to touch. Blearily, he tries blinking up at the Scot through the wetness of his lashes. His face is flushed, and he looks a lot less composed than when Simon saw him in the locker room that day. The implications of this are something Future Simon will have the pleasure of dealing with.
Right now, there’s a more primal part of him that absolutely revels in the way his mouth alone makes Johnny feel. His hands clench uselessly until he starts burying them in his thighs. Johnny didn’t tell him to touch, and he doesn’t feel like the younger man would appreciate him doing something without permission. Instead, his thumbs harshly dig into the inside of his thighs, where the soft layer fat lets itself be pressed into the hardened muscle underneath. Uselessly, his cock twitches and weeps inside his pants. By now, they must be soaked through.
Just when Johnny’s hips start losing their rhythm, he pulls out, and Simon’s tongue darts out to chase the taste of him lingering on his lips.
“You’re better than I expected you to be,” Johnny breathes, cock still throbbing and glistening right in Simon’s face. Before he can retort something snarky, Johnny lifts his boot and softly kicks him in the side. “Damn shame I can’t just have you choking on my cock all day. You’d like that, huh? Maybe we should get you a mask with a ring gag. Have you sitting on your knees all day, getting your mouth stuffed,” he grins as he reaches down and starts tugging off Simon’s shirt. He lets him do as he pleases. “Boosting team morale.”
There’s a tear rolling down his cheek when he blinks, and he only realises when Johnny’s thumb rubs it into the wetness already gathered on his skin. Simon’s mind helpfully reminds him that it’s saliva, tears and precum that’s sticking to him. Johnny takes great care at marking him with all kinds of bodily fluids, and he knows by now the man is burned into the bone sitting underneath.
“Get yourself out of those clothes,” Johnny directs, but when he tries standing up, his legs don’t follow his command. Johnny coos at him, and there’s no pity there, only mockery. “Stay on your knees, then,” he suggests. “You belong there anyways.”
Simon does his best to collect the last shreds of dignity he has left, and makes another attempt to stand. He barely manages to get up to the balls of his feet when Johnny laughs. Before he knows, he’s shoved backwards by a mean hand. The younger man scoffs at his pained humph when his back meets concrete.
“Stop being such a pussy,” he scolds. Simon’s cock jumps at the tone. He wants to say he’s sorry, but he’s nothing if not defiant. The look Johnny gives him is challenging. His fists clench, and he tries hoisting himself up from his elbows in a mighty struggle.
He doesn’t get very far until a heavy boot bears down on his chest and finally crushes him to the ground. He lets out a truly debauched moan at the pressure, the feeling of it on the centre of his bare chest, and his hands uselessly seek purchase in the ground beneath. Honestly, he’s glad Johnny never gave him a chance to stand. He wouldn’t have known what to do once he did– he’s only there for Johnny to take, to guide, to possess.
He allows himself another moment to take in the sight before him as his chest heaves. Johnny is lazily tugging at his cock, slowly exposing the glistening head with each stroke. He sounds so wet and slick, like he’s already had his fun with someone else’s hole. Belatedly, Simon realises that he has, and his cock struggles against the confinement of his pants as his mouth is once more reminded of its emptiness.
A stray line of precum oozes out of Johnny’s slit, and makes a slow descent, before finally landing on the exposed v of his hips. It connects them for a split-second, and as Simon squirms against his hold, Johnny spits out a broken, “fuck.”
With lightning speed, Johnny’s hand leaves his length, and the boot no longer steps on his chest. He crouches down and makes quick work of Simon’s belt, careful not to touch Simon where he needs it most when he drags down the zipper and finally makes room for his dick to breathe. The loss of pressure against the aching in between his legs has Simon’s next exhale coming out shakily.
“Johnny,” he croaks. The man in question makes no move to acknowledge his plea, opting to shove down his pants and boxers instead.
“Johnny– please, I–”
“Shut up,” Johnny spits, and Simon outright sobs.
His cock his hard and aching, hungrily drooling precum into his pubes.
“Jesus Christ, L.t.,” Johnny then says, and there was something in his voice. Was it disgust? Or disappointment? Simon didn’t know, and it made his cock weep only harder. What he did know, however, was that Johnny was staring at it. Hard.
Johnny then kneels down, knees on either side of him, fabric-clad thighs meeting bare skin. He gives Simon’s cock a little flick, something curious and mean, and as Simon jumps from the feeling and the shame of it all, he struggles to support his weight with his elbows once more.
If Johnny notices his movement, he doesn’t comment, doesn’t berate. His eyes still burn holes into Simon’s crotch, absolutely transfixed.
And, well. Simon can’t blame him.
With the way Johnny kneels on him, his dick almost rests next to Simon’s own, and compared to Johnny’s length, he’s almost tiny. He’s still red and weeping, almost a concerningly purple tone that might just be wishful thinking on his end, but with the way they’re aligned, the difference is so shamefully obvious.
“It’s so small,” Johnny says almost disbelievingly, eyes still transfixed on Simon’s prick. It gives a treacherous jump at the comment, and Johnny shifts. Heavily, his balls hang over the base of it, and the glide of it is so wet, Simon feels like he might just be losing his mind.
“Fuck,” he bites out, throwing his head back as Johnny starts rutting forward just a little. The drag of it was not nearly enough, and the fact that it was Johnny rubbing up against him, sharing their fluids only increased his arousal tenfold.
After a couple strokes, Johnny seated himself more fully, finally allowing some proper stimulation to Simon’s aching prick. Each movement of Johnny’s thin, hot skin against his own made him breathe out desperate, whiny little ‘ah’s, and his arms quickly picked up a tremble.
It was gone all too quickly, and he was once again shoved down onto the ground. His head almost hit the concrete, but there was a hand in his hair that cushioned the impact.
With the way Johnny is kneeling above him, his knees brace Simon’s head, shins hovering over the swell of Simon’s biceps, and the toes of his boots rest close to Simon’s armpits.
And there it is, Johnny’s cock, filling out most of Simon’s field of vision. He shudders when a drop of precum drizzles down onto his forehead, milked by the slow, steady movements of Johnny’s hand across his shaft. Simon feels like a starved man, hungrily following each drag of Johnny’s fingers.
“I can’t take it anymore, L.t.,” Johnny admits, sounding incredibly affected. He grabs himself by the base, and guides himself to the side, just so he can look Simon in the eyes. Hot and flushed, with a bead of sweat rolling down the muscles of his neck. Once again, his sight is obscured.
“Driving me fucking insane,” Johnny babbles. His hips start rutting against nothing, and when the swell of his balls start dragging themselves against the stubble on Simon’s chin, the hunger wins. He opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue, and tries sucking on the skin whenever he can. When he recognises the taste of himself mixed in with Johnny’s, he almost combusts on the spot. Instead, a long moan rips out of his throat and sends vibrations along Johnny’s sensitive skin. He thinks he hears the other man choke on his own spit.
“Need ta– Fuck, need ta come down that pretty little throat of yours, L.t.,” Johnny babbles and abandons the bruising grip he’s had on ashy blond hair to guide one of Simon’s hands to the back of his thigh. “Tap out, if– if it’s too much,” he hisses.
Finally he moves his hand to support his weight and drapes his crotch over Simon’s face. With a few teasing taps, he feeds Simon his cock, and then there is no more sense that isn’t overwhelmed by Johnny yet.
“Need to– fuck that tight fucking hole,” the younger man gasps. “Can’t wait any longer, Si.”
The younger man sets a rough pace from the get-go, steadily fucking Simon’s skull into the ground until his brain is mashed and tears start leaking from his eyes. Granted, he doesn’t go all that deep, but it’s still enough to have to time his breaths to prevent sputtering and choking around the length. It doesn’t take all that long until Johnny’s movements go erratic, and desperate, and Simon’s name starts dripping from the Scot’s lips.
“Fuck, coming, take it, take it,” Johnny growls before he stills, and shoots his cum onto Simon’s waiting tongue. He swallows around the head and basks in the keen he’s awarded with. For a moment, when Johnny tries to catch his breath, his cock stays stuffed in Simon’s mouth.
He’s in the safest place in the world, surrounded by all things Johnny: The smell, and the taste of him, the endless planes of skin that make up all that Simon sees and the heat of it all, the weight of where Johnny is pressing him down.
He feels floaty, but the arousal still bubbling in his veins demands for his attention.
“You’re not gonna come tonight,” Johnny says after a while, and even though he straightens in a way that allows their gazes to lock, his softening cock stays nestled in between the plush of Simon’s lips.
The older man sends him a glare, but there are tears that expose desperation instead.
“It’s only fair, I think,” Johnny muses as he starts dragging his hands through Simon’s hair.
Simon is not one to rise to bait, but for once, he desperately wants to rebut.
“I think it’d only be fair if you don’t touch until I tell you to, and don’t come without my permission.”
He wants to whimper, but the dick stuffed down his throat muffles all sounds. The small tug on Simon’s hair is a wordless warning, but he doesn’t budge. Simon desperately needs to cum. Narrowing his eyes, he takes great care at making sure Johnny is meeting his gaze, before he gives the younger man’s overstimulated head a heavy suck.
Johnny hisses, and pulls out of Simon’s mouth right away. “Don’t test me,” Johnny threatens. Fingers press down on his tongue, and he suckles on them to soothe and appease. The hardness in Johnny’s face softens.
“Be a good boy and wait.”