Chapter Text
Soap doesn’t know how it happened. It just – it just was? Even in the beginning, even in the fucking grimy streets of Las Almas that still haunt his nightmares, it was easy. Easy as breathing to shoot flirty remarks at his lieutenant, even though there was no real meaning behind it – or probably wasn’t. The man, in all honesty, was a myth – Soap had heard of him long before meeting him for that first time over on that bloody tarmac in god-knows-where.
Everybody on the SAS knows who Ghost is – or much rather, what he symbolizes. The scary motherfucker who towers over them all at well over two metres tall, the one who never shows his face, always wears a bloody skull mask over a balaclava. The sniper who never misses a shot. The shadow who nobody sees or hears coming, ever, who kills as silently and efficiently with a blade as with his sniper rifle. The one who always gets sent on the toughest missions, but always gets sent out alone – because he doesn’t need nobody to watch his six, because he’s cool like that.
Soap heard the tales long before Las Almas – the scary ones, the respectful ones. But he also heard the warnings: That Ghost’s a loner, not amicable, barely ever speaks to anyone out of the 141 – only what’s needed for the mission, a sucker for code and clear comms.
The Ghost he met in Las Almas was different, though – so yeah, maybe it just was, from the beginning. Different. Special. Something to behold.
So of course, to Soap it becomes a challenge. To find out what makes that huge, silent man tick, what he hides behind that mask – besides that face that has absolutely no right to be so ruggedly beautiful, thank you very much. He makes it a challenge to befriend the scary lieutenant, and at first, he pipes it up to admiration: Ghost is the best in everything he does, Soap wants to be like him, wants to take the chance and learn from him.
But it’s also because Soap, in general, is a very sociable person and he hates not getting along with the people in his task force. And while he likes Price just fine and clicks with Gaz from the beginning like they’d known each other all their lives – Ghost is different. Even after Las Almas, after Chicago, after realizing they work together like a charm, Ghost still keeps Johnny at arms’ length. And oh, how Soap despises that.
So, he works on it. If he has a folder on his phone with all the dumb jokes he can find just so he can tell them to his lieutenant and get a laugh out of him, it’s his secret to keep. If he revels in the way the others ogle him weird when he talks about their escapades over comms, it’s also nobody’s business but his own. He just wants Ghost to like him – to befriend him, that’s all.
Soap likes the way they work together – likes when Price tells them both that they work better as a team, that he plans on using them as a package deal. Likes that Ghost doesn’t protest, just grunts and shrugs it off. It’s a win. A huge one, if you ask him. (Nobody does.)
It’s the first mission they get send on as said package deal when everything comes to a head.
They’re somewhere in Latvia, close to the Russian border, and they’re supposed to stop one of Makarov’s cronies who uses some remote forest to smuggle weapons and drugs from the European Union into Russia – probably to use them to worsen the Ukrainian war, if Soap has to guess. The premise is: Stay in a tiny, old cabin that nobody used for fuck-knows how long, wait for the next transport to arrive (which could be anything from a couple of days to a month), and take it down.
In other words: Sitting on their asses all day in bumfuck nowhere, waiting for an easy fight that will most likely be over in just over an hour.
And of fucking course, it takes too fucking long. They’ve been hunkered down in that shithole for ten days already, and Soap is pretty sure they’d driven each other up the walls if it wasn’t for the tiny reprieves they have from each other when they patrol the area every couple of hours.
The biggest problem, Soap knows, is probably (most likely) his bloody ADHD. While he’s perfectly fine laying still behind a scope for hours, sitting on his ass waiting for something, anything to happen makes his skin crawl until he’s ready to just vibrate out of it. And Ghost gets tired of it – oh, so tired of it. Soap doesn’t need to be a genius to tell – but he also doesn’t have good enough self-control to be able to stop himself.
“Hey, LT?” Soap asks over dinner (some sludge that they call MREs that Soap most definitely does not want to think about).
Ghost just shoots him a look. A glare, more like. Soap decides to ignore it.
“Why don’t Islamists play chess?”
A cocked eyebrow – a win?
“’cause you can only hit the dame once” Soap says and shovels more of the unnamed and undefinable sludge into his mouth.
Ghost groans. “Holy shit, Soap, do you ever shut up?”
And Soap has a witty reply at the ready, at the tip of his tongue, basically – it’s only that his mouth is full to the brim with said sludge (because it only grows more the more he chews on it), so he can’t say it out loud. He gesticulates to said problem, chews like a madman.
“So that’s what it needs, huh? Stuffing your mouth?” Ghost asks, voice dangerously low, a glint in his eye.
Soap instantly chokes on the sludge and almost has to spew everything out. Barely manages to get it down with a large gulp of water. It only has Ghost chuckling darkly.
“If I’d known that that’d be all it takes, I would’ve stuffed that large mouth of yours myself a long time ago.”
Soap gapes at him – and notices a second too late that this, apparently, is all it takes. Because these words, delivered the way they are, don’t sound like a promise of violence, but of something else entirely. And it has all his blood rushing south so fast that he’s almost lightheaded with it.
He finds his composure a second later, leans forward in his seat, smirks at Ghost. “That a promise, LT?” he teases.
Ghost doesn’t back down from where he’s hunched over his food, just looks at Soap. And that is what’s new – the banter, the flirting, was until now limited to comms, where Soap hadn’t been able to look at Ghost, see the way his brown eyes flash with gold when his pupils dilate. And fuck, since when does he notice these things about his partner?
“Do you want it to be, Johnny?”
“Och, come on, not that fucking nickname again.”
“Not what I asked you, sergeant.” Ghost squares his shoulders, towers over Soap just as much as he towers over that tiny kitchen table they’re sitting at spooning sludge into themselves.
Soap doesn’t budge. “So what if I do? I’m a man of many secrets, Ghost, you know that.”
For a second, it’s quiet. The air around them is charged. Then, Ghost scoffs, “You wish.” And leans back in his seat to finish his dinner.
Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a win to Soap at all. So he’s relatively quiet for the next couple of minutes while they finish eating, and then he goes to wash up their plates and cutlery. It’s easy work, even though the water’s cold, and he lets his mind wander during.
Doesn’t even notice that he’s started humming some song that’s just stuck in his head since they turned off the radio that afternoon. Doesn’t notice how close Ghost has come until there’s rough hands on his shoulders, turning him around forcefully. Soap all but squawks in protest, but all sounds die in his throat when a large hand closes around his throat.
Ghost is towering over him, all glorious two meters something, and he’s reminded how much smaller he is – even though at over 1,90 meters, he doesn’t usually feel small. His throat works against Ghost’s palm bordering-on-painfully when he swallows, but he can’t tear his gaze away from those dark cold eyes staring down at him from that mask. They’re close, closer than they’ve ever been outside of close combat training (and carrying each other around when they’re hurt on a mission), chests pressed together; Ghost’s tac vest digs into Soap’s flesh harshly.
“Always so fucking loud, Johnny” Ghost chastises him – and somehow, it doesn’t sound like a reprimand at all, even though his voice is low and emotionless.
“You know me” Soap replies. The pressure on his throat is tight, but not so tight that he can’t speak anymore. “You just found out what’s the only solution to me shutting up.”
“Fucking hell” Ghost curses. “Can’t keep you eating the whole day, though, can I?”
“Guess you can’t” Soap smirks, cockily, even though he feels lightheaded and he’s really not in a position to mouth off – he’s seen Ghost kill people with the hand that’s currently wrapped around his throat. But there’s something in the way that Ghost holds himself that lets him know that he’s not in danger. Not of being killed, anyways. “You’ve got another idea, Sir?”
Ghost cocks an eyebrow – Soap would recognize that move anytime, even though the fucking balaclava hides most of his face and most definitely his gold-blond eyebrows. “You’ve got any idea what you’re asking, Seargent?”
No, Soap doesn’t know what he’s asking – doesn’t even know why or how the situation escalated so quickly. They’re not just toeing the line they’d previously danced on, they’re stomping on it like they’re trying to put out a fire. It doesn’t matter that it gets more and more blurry by the second. And Soap can’t find it in him to care. Not when Ghost’s fingers flex on his windpipe, making him squirm – which, in consequence, makes their hips brush against each other. The smirk on Soap’s lips widens when he notices that he’s not the only one affected by whatever the fuck it is they’re doing here. “What are you offering, Ghost? You gonna stuff my mouth?”
“Should fucking gag you, you menace” Ghost curses. Still, his free hand comes up, thumb stroking over Soap’s bottom lip, dragging his mouth open. Soap’s tongue comes out, licking at the digit – and Ghost’s eyes widen just a fraction. His fingers flex again, further tightening around Soap’s throat, this time actually constricting his airflow. “You’d like that, don’t you?” His thumb presses down, onto Soap’s tongue, opening his jaw – and Soap all but whines when he sucks on it. Ghost is still wearing his skeleton gloves, and they taste like gunpowder and oil and dirt, but Soap doesn’t find it in himself to care.
Not when he doesn’t only see but feel what that little gesture is doing to Ghost. He sucks on it, harder, and feels Ghost’s cock twitch against his hip even through both of their cargo pants.
“Fuck” Ghost curses again. “You gonna be a good boy and show me what that loud mouth of yours is good for?”
And Soap doesn’t moan because Ghost calls him a good boy – he doesn’t. It’s because their hips brush together just right so that there’s pressure on his tip, the right side of too tight. (It’s really not.)
Ghost takes it as a yes anyway. “On your knees.”
It’s embarrassing how fast Soap drops, his knees hitting the old, uneven wooden floor, looking up at Ghost with wide eyes for a blink before his gaze drops to where Ghost is unbuckling his belt, pulling open his trousers. And Soap knows that everything about Ghost is big – his biceps are large as other people’s heads, for heaven’s sake, and his thighs are like tree trunks. He easily weighs over two hundred fifty pounds. Everything about him is more than average – so why the fuck had Soap thought that his dick would be average?
And now, there, in that moment, kneeling on the dingy floor in some cabin in bumfuck nowhere Latvia, that’s where he allows himself to admit that yes, he had thought about Ghost’s dick. Not a lot, because contrary to popular belief, he has some resemblance of self-control. But sometimes, in the dark, during long nights when he let his mind wander while he touched himself in his bunk, he thought about what would happen if their banter ever escalated into something, anything actually happening.
Apparently, this is what happens. Ghost pulls his dick free from his tight black boxers, and it’s long and veiny, obviously a shower as much as a grower. The head is plump and flushed, already glistening, and the coarse hairs at the base are a shade darker than his eyebrows.
“Shit, LT” Soap curses. “Should get a cast made of it – dildos like that would sell faster than-“ He’s interrupted by large fingers burying into his sweaty, dirty mohawk, yanking on the strands, tugging his head back.
“Johnny” Ghost warns, grip tightening even when tears spring to Soap’s eyes from the pressure. “Shut the fuck up and open up.”
Soap doesn’t even have the chance to reply with a snarky undertone, or do something foolish like salute Ghost, before that gorgeous fat cockhead nudges past his open lips. Soap watches Ghost’s arms flex, watches his throat bob, his eyes narrow, as he takes the first, tentative lick at the tip, closing his lips around Ghost’s cock.
It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
From then on, there’s no more talking – instead, Soap goes to work. He wraps one of his hands around the base of Ghost’s cock; there’s no way in hell that he could take him in all at once, so he covers what he can’t reach with his fingers. He licks and nibs and sucks on it like a starved man tasting water for the first time in days. Maybe he is – hell, when was the last time he got laid? Ghost, above him, is beautifully reactive for all his usual composure. He’s all low huffs and grunts when something feels good, fingers flexing in Soap’s hair, the other hand gripping the kitchen counter at Soap’s back like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. It might just be from the way his muscles are tensing and clenching.
The only time that Ghost actually says something to him is when Soap’s free hand drops from Ghost’s thigh to his own crotch, desperately pawing at his own aching erection while he sucks Ghost into his mouth as deep as he can. At that, Ghost all but growls at him, and yanks Soap off his cock by his hair. “No touching yourself” he warns – and Soap drags his fingers back up to Ghost’s balls instead, carefully fondling them, his lips following the trace of his fingers to Ghost’s sac, sucking the tender flesh into his mouth, teeth scraping.
Ghost moans. Soap does it again, other hand working Ghost’s cock right next to his cheek, until Ghost’s fingers tighten, pull him to getting his mouth back on his cock. Still, Soap lets his fingers play with Ghost’s balls in the way he likes to do to himself, revels in the way they tighten and draw close to his body.
At a particular cheeky drag of nails along Ghost’s dam, his hips stutter forward – thrusting his dick right into the back of Soap’s throat, making him gag and cough. Ghost pulls him off and away in an instant, eyebrows drawing together in concern when their eyes meet.
“Shit, sorry. You okay, Soap?” It’s surprisingly tender for the way Ghost’s been manhandling him these past minutes.
Johnny clears his throat once, then grins up at Ghost lazily. “Don’t worry about me, LT – I never get my mouth too full, you know me.”
Ghost honest-to-god growls at him. “Shit Johnny” he says, just as Soap goes back to sucking him off like his life depends on it. “Should just fuck your throat until your voice gets so rough that you can’t speak anymore” Ghost muses, and starts moving his hips – just tiny thrusts, carefully as to not gag Soap again, Soap notices even with his lust-addled brain. It has him moaning around Ghost’s dick, hips stuttering, searching friction in the confines of his own pants.
Ghost chuckles, and both his hands come to frame his head as he holds him still, starts fucking him shallowly. Johnny grips Ghost’s thighs, digs his fingers into the rock-hard muscle until he’s sure to leave bruises. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Johnny-boy? Bet you’d be so good for me, open and pliant, just like you are now.” And fuck, that dirty mouth on Ghost will be Soap’s own personal undoing.
Ghost continues fucking Soap’s mouth, and Soap has no other choice but to let it happen. It’s weirdly soft for those harsh words, the lieutenant careful not to thrust too far, only just shy of hitting the back of Soap’s throat. Soap rewards him by sucking on him, laving his tongue around, letting his teeth catch just so every other thrust – until the steady, shallow rhythm falters and Ghost’s breath comes fast and tight.
“Look at you” Ghost says through gritted teeth, his gloved fingers digging into Soap’s scalp. “Finally quiet, all for me.” Soap hums, making Ghost’s hips stutter. “Fuck” Ghost groans. “Gonna –“ He tries to pull back, but Soap uses all the strength in his neck, in his upper body, to keep his mouth on him – there’s no chance in hell that he’s not having Ghost come in his mouth. Ghost groans again, trying to kant his hips backwards – Soap holds onto his thighs like a lifeline.
And then, the first spurt of hot salty cum hits the back of his throat. Soap swallows around the gag reflex, lets the cum flood his mouth, continuing to suck Ghost through it even when his hips stutter against him and Ghost’s upper body curls in on itself. Soap watches what he can from his point between Ghost’s legs – watches his chest constrict and his muscles tremble, watches his eyes screw shut while he shoots his load on Soap’s tongue until parts of his dribble past his shaft down Soap’s spit-slicked chin.
Soap swallows what he can, continues licking Ghost’s dick clean until he’s spasming from overstimulation and jerks back out of his reach. Soap doesn’t know whether Ghost voluntarily sinks to the floor in front of Soap or whether his knees give out, but the next thing he knows is Ghost’s hand coming back up to wrap around his throat, angling his head until Ghost can look him directly in the eyes. Soap’s lips are parted, they feel hot and swollen and slightly sticky with fast-drying cum and spit. “Fuck, look at you” Ghost says, again. “You always that eager for cock, sergeant?”
Soap does. Not. Whimper. He doesn’t. He smirks to cover up the noise. “You know me, LT.”
Ghost’s grip tightens – Soap is pretty sure that his neck is going to bruise, he just hopes that they get into a fight to explain it later. He shifts, and one of his legs comes to rest between Soap’s, pressing against his painfully hard erection. “Shit, and here I was wanting to reward you for being good and finally shutting that mouth of yours” he says, darkly, a dangerous glint in his eyes. His knee prods, gives Soap friction – but when he tries to move his hips, the pressure on his throat only increases more until one of his hands comes up to wrap around Ghost’s forearm while he struggles to breathe around it.
“Please” he chokes out around it, tugging on his arm – and after a moment, Ghost lets up just a tiny bit, until Soap can force in a full breath just so.
“What was that?”
“Please, Ghost –“ The knee shifts, and Soap moans.
“Please what?”
“Please make me –“ Another choked moan is ripped from his raw throat. “- come.”
Ghost’s eyes narrow, the lines around them deepening – he’s grinning. “Good boy.” And then he uses his other hand to open Soap’s trousers, quickly, efficiently, tugging Soap’s dick out of his confines without much ado. The first touch of his rough gloves has Soap jumping from unexpected pleasure. How often has he fantasised this moment, conjured up what it would feel like to have Ghost’s gloved palm on his dick? He’s not sure – lost count from how often, if he’s honest.
Ghost doesn’t tease anymore – instead, he starts jerking Soap off with quick, efficient, practised movements, the other hand staying on Soap’s throat, keeping him pinned to the kitchen cabinet, keeping him struggling to breathe around the constant pressure. The way this is going, Soap’s not going to last. He moans breathily, head thudding against the wood behind him, eyes slipping shut.
All movement of Ghost’s hand on his dick ceases. “Nuh-uh” Ghost tuts, both hands tightening for a second. “Want you to look at me while you come on my hand, Johnny.” Soap’s eyes shoot open obediently, finding Ghost’s gaze – not letting it go even when Ghost resumes his ministrations.
Suddenly, there’s a crackle from the radio they use to communicate with Price. Soap jerks, Ghost’s eyes barely flicker up to the radio that Soap left by the sink when he started washing up (was that really not even half an hour ago?). “You gonna behave?” He asks.
Soap nods. Only then does Ghost unwrap his fingers from Soap’s neck to grip the radio in hand. He fiddles with it – the other hand barely falters in its rhythm. “Bravo 7-0, you copy?” Price.
Soap whimpers, and Ghost doesn’t. Fucking. Stop. He just shoots him a glare, motioning for him to be quiet – before he presses the fucking speaker button on the device.
“Aye, listening.” His voice is back to his usual calm, looming, almost bored baritone.
“Got some intel in right now” Price says. “Goods moving tomorrow at 0400, should be with you at around 0530 – you boys ready to go?”
Ghost doesn’t tear his eyes away from Soap once – Soap, who’s trembling on the kitchen floor, biting down on his own fist so he doesn’t moan while on the comms with his captain because he’s being jerked off within an inch of his life by his fucking lieutenant.
In that moment, he misses the irony of the situation completely.
“Positive, Captain” Ghost replies, and his balaclava shows that his lips are pulled into a smirk. “We’ll be ready.”
“Good. We’re keeping exfil at the ready, you keep me posted.”
Soap doesn’t hear the way they end the conversation over the ringing in his ears. This bloody handjob is the single hottest thing that ever happened to him.
Ghost throws the radio on the counter, and his hand comes up to pluck Soap’s fist from his mouth – his teeth left deep indents in his pointer finger. Ghost’s thumb swipes over Soap’s lower lip, again, almost tenderly. “Such a good boy, Johnny” he praises, leaning close until there’s barely any space between their faces. So easy to just rock forward and kiss him right now, if it wasn’t for the bloody balaclava. Soap moans, hips jerking as Ghost’s grip on him tightens, his fist speeding up.
“Come for me.”
Soap does. Jerking, convulsing, while he shoots his load all over the t-shirt he’s wearing. Some sticks to Ghost’s glove, a stark contrast to the black fabric. He’s moaning, maybe even Ghost’s name, and his vision blacks out for a second. The orgasm shatters through his body like lightning and thunder and storm, and it leaves him breathless and boneless, sunken against the dingy kitchen cabinet.
Ghost jerks him through it, swipes the last of the cum from Soap’s slit, effectively cleaning him off with his gloves, before he lets go of him. There’s a weird, soft yet far away look in his eyes, and they glow in a way Soap’s never seen before. He drowns in it until Ghost sits back, leaving Soap’s personal space. He’s already put his cock back into his pants and fastens his belt before getting to his feet, offering a hand and pulling Soap up as well.
“Go and put on a fresh shirt, Soap. I’ll finish the dishes.”
It’s only after Soap has shoved the come-stained shirt at the very bottom of his pack that he realizes that Ghost had pulled off his gloves before he pulled him to his feet, and that their bare hands had touched for the first time.