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Whenever there’s time between missions, Ghost thinks about taking up a hobby. There’s only so much time he can spend maintaining his weapons and watching the rest of the squad play cards. He can be enticed to play occasionally, especially when there’s bets on the line, but when it’s just something to pass the time like they’re doing now, Ghost sits on the fringes. He never feels settled unless he’s in the field, when the ever-present tension that’s a noose around his neck slackens enough to let him exist without feeling like his body is something he’s anchored to.
Soap helps. Just as much an artist as he is a soldier, nothing Soap has ever drawn in his beloved journal has felt as deliberate and precise as the way he molds Ghost’s body into more desirable shapes like he’s clay and not marble. Ghost is Soap's own Sistine Chapel, and even though his work won’t be remembered as a great accomplishment for humanity, he's changing the trajectory of Ghost’s life all the same. Soap saw the cracked foundation of his personhood and decided to move in and make a home out of him anyway. It should incense him, but it’s not a loss of autonomy when he gets Soap's body and heart in return.
Even now, as Soap walks into their little rec room after a self-imposed extended workout, he seeks Ghost out immediately. The possessive part of Ghost wants to lord it over their squadmates. He made podium for an event no one else knew they were competing in, but that doesn’t stop him from being smug about it.
“What’re they playing?” Soap asks as he approaches.
“Euchre.”
Soap purses his lips. Like Ghost, he doesn’t tend to join when there’s nothing on the line, and Euchre is one of the only games where they play for nothing but bragging rights. “Ah. Got blueprints to draw anyway.”
His dedication to memorizing intel is admirable, but the next mission is a week out. There’s plenty of time, and Ghost is still basking in the high of Soap coming straight to him. It never stops feeling good even though it stopped surprising him after the first dozen times it happened. When Soap tries to leave with nothing more than his usual two taps to Ghost’s shoulder, Ghost reaches out and snags Soap's wrist. He pulls until Soap stumbles and collapses awkwardly in the chair with him.
Soap grumbles for all of six seconds before he makes himself comfortable, settling sideways across Ghost’s lap. “I was doing something.” He sounds put out but he drapes his arms around Ghost’s shoulders anyways, little smile on his face.
“And now you’re doing something else.” Ghost puts a hand on the inside of one of Soap's thighs. He squeezes down and then moves his hand higher, repeating until he gets close enough to Soap's crotch that Price takes notice and raises an eyebrow. They’re not far enough away to be discreet, but Ghost doesn’t want to be. They’ve been discreet enough with whatever they are so far, and Ghost is tired of it.
“Ghost, are you crazy?” Soap hisses when Ghost starts tugging on his zipper. He isn’t hard, but he will be. Ghost will make sure of it.
“Come on, Johnny. Don’t you trust me?” It’s a taunt as much as a reminder that it isn’t Soap's place to question him. Ghost cups Soap's dick through his underwear. “We’re just gonna have some fun, yeah?”
Soap acquiesces easily, hiding his face in Ghost’s neck, embarrassed. It makes Ghost want to be mean, to see how red he can make Soap blush. Soap has no problem running his mouth or batting his eyelashes at any man with a pulse to get what he wants, but the second all attention is focused squarely on him, he gets shy.
It’s almost cute.
Price clears his throat, leaning forwards in his seat. “Everything all right, MacTavish?”
“He’s fine,” Ghost huffs.
Price doesn’t back down. The conversation from the rest of the guys dies down considerably. “I’d like to hear it from him.”
His words make Ghost snarl, low and primal. How dare Price think he has any authority here. What Ghost says, goes. Soap is his and his alone—his toy to fuck and humiliate and bite and hold and love and cherish. He would never put Soap in legitimate harm. “I'm speaking for him. Johnny knows he can leave if he wants to. Isn’t that right, baby?”
The pet name makes Soap's cock swell, conditioned like a dog. He nods, still hiding his face—it seems he wants everyone else to know how intertwined they’ve become as well. It’s enough to appease Price at least. He sits back, waiting for his turn, but he keeps glancing between his cards and Ghost’s hand as it pulls Soap’s underwear down and starts teasing his cock. Gaz, Roach, and Meat are doing the same, a lot more blatant about it.
“They’re all watching you,” Ghost murmurs. It’s meant for Soap, but he lets it carry to the other four. This little show is for them too. “Seeing what a good girl you are for me.”
Soap shivers. Precum pours out of his slit, easing the glide as Ghost strokes him. “You like that, Johnny? Why don’t you tell them?”
When Soap doesn’t move, Ghost grabs his jaw and forces him to look at the hungry gazes of their team. Soap’s face is deliciously flushed, sweat gathering on his forehead. “Tell them, or I won’t touch you.”
Soap opens and closes his mouth a few times. He finally gets out, too much of a mumble for Ghost’s liking, “I like being your good girl.”
It’s Price that cuts in before Ghost can reprimand him, using the same voice he does to lead them on missions. “Speak up, Sergeant.”
“I like being Ghost’s good girl.” Everything is enunciated clearly, except for the last word that’s cut through the middle with a groan when Ghost begins jerking his cock again.
“Yeah, you do.” He whispers in Soap’s ear, “Pretty like a girl, wet like a girl. Think I could breed you like one?”
The pitiful noise Soap makes as he comes is music to Ghost’s ears. He can’t help grinding up into Soap’s weight, painfully hard watching cum splash up Soap’s shirt to his clavicle. Soap’s thighs spasm the longer Ghost continues to stroke him—he pleads for Ghost to stop, but Ghost doesn’t let up. “I know what you can take,” he growls, “so take it.”
There are tears in Soap’s eyes by the time Ghost stops. He brings his hand to Soap’s mouth, hearing a curse from their audience when Soap laps it clean. The guys have given up all pretense of playing their game, cards abandoned on the table in favor of watching Soap fall apart so exquisitely. He can’t see it from his angle, but Ghost would bet they’re all hard.
In a display of boldness Ghost isn’t expecting, Gaz says, “I think he should get you off in return, sir. Fair’s fair.”
Soap tries to say something, but Price cuts him off, commanding, “Be a good lad and suck the lieutenant off."
“Yes, sir.” Soap gets on his knees in between Ghost’s legs clumsily, hands uncoordinated as they paw at Ghost’s belt. When Soap gets his cock out and spits messily on it before swallowing him down, a low sound comes from either Gaz or Roach—something so close to a whimper that it adds to the heat in Ghost’s gut.
Ghost tangles his clean hand in Soap’s hair, an anchor point for Soap rather than something to control the pace. He doesn’t need to take charge when Soap gets like this, so wound up that he ignores technical prowess for messy perfection. Ghost feels like a king on a throne, legs spread wide with his sergeant gagging on his dick. Even when he doesn’t own his own body, he owns Soap, and that’s worth more than any kingdom in the world.
“So good, Johnny,” Ghost praises. “Such a good faggot for me.” That makes Soap moan, loud, choking himself trying to get Ghost deeper in his throat.
“Oh, he’s one of those kinds, is he?” Price asks. His voice is the right combination of mocking and awestruck to put a fierce blush high on Soap’s cheeks.
They can’t see the grin on his face, but it’s there all the same, too many teeth to be on the right side of polite. “It’s pathetic how fast he comes on my cock when I call him a faggot. Don’t even have to touch him.”
Talking about Soap like he’s not there—like he’s not currently on his knees for Ghost—is thrilling. It drives home the point of this whole thing, which is that Ghost is here to speak for him and direct him and showcase him whenever he wants. Soap is his, just as much as he is Soap’s. They’ve violently sanded down each other’s jagged edges, fitting together to make a beautifully grotesque Frankenstein’s monster of codependency.
It’s the most meaningful thing Ghost has ever been a part of.
He’s close, almost ready to ride the knife’s edge of urgency when Price breaks and slips a hand under the waistband of his sweats. It’s Gaz and Roach following suit that gets him there. “Get ready, sweetheart.”
He fucks up into Soap’s mouth for a handful of seconds before coming with a theatrical groan. Soap knows it’s not for his benefit, winking cheekily at him before moving back and turning to face the guys. He does his own theatrics, swallowing and sticking out his tongue so they can see what a good cocksucker he is. Ghost tugs his head back and leans down to kiss him, fists clenching when Soap bites his bottom lip. It’s not hard enough to make Ghost bleed this time, but he can still feel the indents of Soap’s teeth with his tongue when they part.
“You were perfect, Johnny,” Ghost whispers, not letting the others hear this time. “I’m so proud of you.”
Still cumdrunk, Soap whispers back, “Just wanna be good for you, Simon.”
“You always are. So perfect. Like you were made for me.”
Soap sighs, content. “I think I was.”
Yeah, Ghost thinks, looking at the creature in front of him that he often believes is more heavenly host than man, I think I was too.