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Soap’s never considered himself small.
Sure, he’s not the tallest guy he knows, but he’s hovering around the average. Years spent dedicated to the gym have the circumference of his biceps and thighs rivaling the majority of his fellow SAS members. He’s never been passed on for lack of physical ability, which is more than he can say about fuckin’ half the other guys from his trainee days.
And he’s definitely bigger than the people he picks up at pubs on leave.
The thing is, he’s admittedly got a bit of a complex, and he likes the sense of control that comes with banging people smaller—and weaker—than him. Besides, most of the bigger guys he knows are straight and uninterested and Soap’s typically not interested in them, either. It works.
Then, he gets paired with Ghost.
Ghost, who is not just some bigger guy but who is his highly capable, highly stoic, highly admirable lieutenant. Who cracks deadpan jokes over comms and firmly corrects Soap when he—rarely—fucks up and saves his bloody life too many times to count. Who makes Soap’s skin prickle hypersensitive and his stomach knot when they brush shoulders and thighs sitting on the exfil helo.
Who, if rumors amongst Soap’s fellow sergeants are to be believed, is pretty solidly not straight. Though not a single one of them has been able to back that claim up with any real proof other than not married and spends too much time with Captain Price.
Lusting after Ghost is a lot different than Soap’s used to. Even apart from the ethical dilemma of wanting to fuck his superior, he just hasn’t spent a lot of time fantasizing about someone with nearly a foot of height over him and girthier biceps than his own. Price pairs them together over and over after their first successful mission, and Soap increasingly finds himself wondering what it would feel like to give up that sense of control. Wondering what it would feel like to be physically overwhelmed in bed. What it would feel like to confront that wire-crossing pit in his stomach that makes him feel both inadequate around his lieutenant and wholly, undeniably turned the fuck on.
He channels that energy into SAS-approved homoeroticism-as-a-punchline flirting over comms. And Ghost flirts back, on occasion. And Soap gets off about it, sometimes still on the job, white-knuckled and breathless.
But Soap would never actually try anything.
Not really.
No, he can’t fuck someone else in the service, no matter what. He’s pretty sure Price is the only one who knows he’s going stealth, and Soap would prefer to keep it that way.
…Even if the breaks between missions come few and far between, and those rare visits to the bars on leave become less and less satisfying while Soap’s mind is preoccupied with how Ghost’s wrist appears larger than the beefiest part of Soap’s forearm.
Soap’s not actually all that disciplined when it comes to things he wants, so he’s impressed that he keeps it to flirting over comms. That he saves every low-voiced retort Ghost lobs back at him in the recesses of his mind to jerk off to. That he keeps it tactical.
After their fifth or sixth joint mission, they drink together.
It’s the kind of mission that leaves Soap needing a drink. And Ghost’s never joined him before, but he does this time, even invites Soap to his room, and the on-comms-flirting devolves into illegally-drinking-in-the-barracks-flirting, Soap throwing back a few cans of cheap lukewarm lager and Ghost sipping whisky from the handle.
The alcohol helps, too. Because talking to Ghost over comms is safe, distanced by miles and static and the ability to hide his warming face or sweaty palms. Now, he’s sitting across from Ghost’s bed—leaned so far on the back legs of a chair he’s sure to lose balance—and Ghost is sitting across from him. Close enough that Soap could drop the chair onto all four legs, lean over, and crawl into his lap before his better judgment stopped him.
Soap’s clearly not alone in needing the alcohol to calm his nerves, though. Ghost’s huge and imposing on the standard-issue twin barracks bed, but his thighs are at a ninety-degree angle with the mattress and floor like he’s not quite comfortable breaking the rules like this yet.
“Relax already, Lt,” Soap says, once he’s exhausted conversation about the mission and Ghost is still looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “We made it. High time to get that stick out of yer arse.”
Ghost does, visibly, seem to relax. As if he hadn’t realized just how uncomfortable he looked. He casts his masked gaze across Soap and nods, spreads his legs a little, lets his shoulders drop and his body take up more room on the bed.
“That’s better.” Soap tempers the thrill that runs through his chest knowing Ghost holds him in high enough regard to take him seriously even when they’re not inside the wire. “Not used to shooting the shit in the barracks?”
Ghost, ever one for conversation, makes a dismissive sound and takes another swig of his whisky handle. But he also leans back, closer to his elbows, like he’s still attempting to be more casual.
Soap knows Ghost’s a bit of a loner, even though most of their colleagues think he’s just intimidating without cause. He knows that, flirting aside, he has wormed his way into Ghost’s heart as a friend in a way maybe only Price can beat.
“Did you suggest your room cause there’s less chance of us getting busted?” Soap asks, attempting to get a verbal response for a third time, and almost loses balance on the chair. He lets it fall to the floor with a thud.
“For what?” Ghost asks.
Which is an interesting clarification to ask for.
“Drinking in the barracks, of course.” Soap grins and nudges Ghost’s shin with the toe of his boot, and then he tilts back onto the rear legs of the chair again, drops into that flirty-over-comms voice to continue, “Why…somethin’ else on your mind?”
Ghost drags his eyes from where their legs are crowded together between the chair and the bed up to meet Soap’s again. He’s looking exceptionally relaxed now, like Soap’s gentle ribbing had been a challenge for him to best.
“Suggested my room because I thought you were looking to get fucked, actually,” Ghost says.
Soap loses balance again on the chair. He doesn’t hear it hit the floor over the shellshock.
“You’ve been near begging for it for weeks, sergeant,” Ghost continues, too calmly.
“Not sure what you’re on about,” Soap says, after his ears stop ringing. Apparently, Soap’s been so disciplined, in fact, so committed to not letting his crush turn into something he can’t take back, that he inadvertently drove Ghost to make the first move.
But regardless of who puts a name to what they’ve been dancing around, it’s still a non-option.
Ghost is stock-still, eyes staring from behind the mask, and Soap fidgets in the chair. His lieutenant is not used to being purposely misunderstood or jerked around, he’s sure.
“The flirting, Soap.” Ghost stands and sets the whisky on his bedside table. Soap quickly stands as well. Ghost’s tall enough in comparison without him remaining sitting down. “You have zero bloody tact. Can’t believe you haven’t jumped me yet.”
Soap laughs that off, higher and more desperate than he usually would, and backs up towards the door in case he needs a quick exit.
It’s not that Ghost is wrong. For someone hyper-preoccupied with not letting anything happen between them, Soap has done nothing to keep himself out of situations where it might. His obsession with not fucking Ghost has morphed into a game with stakes that necessitate he could fuck Ghost if he wanted to.
However, he clearly underestimated Ghost’s own capacity for breaking the rules.
So sue him. Not like he could interpret much behind the fuckin’ mask, anyway.
“Sure, I’m interested,” Soap says, going for honesty now that he has the door handle in grabbing distance. “But I know we can’t. Know we shouldn’t. Don’t worry, Lt, I’m not as impulsive as you think.”
Ghost approaches him at the door, crowding him against the wall, and Soap wills his hand to take the handle…but he can’t move. Every molecule of his godforsaken body wants to know what his normally stoic lieutenant is going to do if he stays. What he’s going to do to him.
“Because I’m your superior?” Ghost asks, as if he does not find this particular roadblock challenging.
Unfortunately, that’s not all that’s keeping Soap from acting. But he’s not going to say as much.
“Mostly, aye.”
“Not an issue.”
“You can’t,” Soap says, and licks his lips. Steadies his breath on an exhale. Wishes he knew more about whatever forces are at play that make Ghost so confident in his ability to fuck his subordinate without consequences. “Y’have a lot more to lose than me if it gets out…sir.”
Soap can tell his persuasive skills have failed before the words are halfway out of his mouth. Ghost takes the bait of the dare without question: he rolls his mask up to his nose, leans down, and kisses Soap hard.
Soap’s not drunk, but once Ghost’s long-awaited mouth is finally on his, he’s not inhibited enough to remember how bad an idea this is either. He falls into it so eagerly it’s fuckin’ embarrassing. He grabs Ghost’s t-shirt in both hands to pull him down closer, harder, and opens his mouth for him. Tastes the whisky on the back of his tongue.
And Ghost—who, conversely, is maybe even drunker than Soap realized, never this bold in interpersonal matters until right bloody now—grabs the front of his cargos.
Soap can feel something twitch in Ghost’s jaw on contact. Ghost gropes at him, experimentally, and starts kissing him slower like he’s preoccupied with vaulting the mental gymnastics of what’s going on in Soap’s pants.
Soap should break away and grab the door handle and escape to his own room. But he’s pinned to the wall, and Ghost’s mouth is warm and wet and booze-soaked, and Soap’s never been one for running from danger.
Ghost stops pawing at him and shoves his hand past his waistband and into his boxers. Soap jerks his head to the side to break the kiss and grabs Ghost’s wrist—but it’s too late.
Ghost cups Soap’s cunt and freezes. He stares down at Soap, mouth a hard line, eyes giving away nothing behind the mask. Soap’s breathing heavy from the kiss, from his panic, from the beer in his system, and he stares back and stays silent. Ghost’s fingers are flush against Soap’s pussy for the first time and they are both stunned into inaction.
Worst of all: Soap’s so fucking wet.
“MacTavish…” Ghost trails off. Which is incredibly novel, because his lieutenant is kind of an expert at either saying exactly what he means to say, or saying fuckin’ nothing at all.
“…Aye.” Soap, on the other hand, is more than happy to fill silence with something meaningless.
Ghost moves his hand a bit, like he’s double checking, and then he exhales a slow breath.
“Who else knows?” he asks. His thick fingers still again, but they are there, nestled in Soap’s embarrassingly slick folds.
“Just Price, I think.”
“Bloody wanker.” Ghost scoffs a little, but then he pauses, sizes Soap up. Soap does not understand Ghost’s ire at Price, but before he can question it, Ghost continues: “You’re soaked.”
Soap feels too small pressed against the wall with Ghost towering over him. He’s, for once in his life, a bit nervous his voice will shake if he tries to speak.
But Ghost hasn’t pulled his hand away, and although the emotions working themselves out in his jaw are difficult to parse, Soap would bet his pension that they’re anything other than disinterest.
So, he grabs onto Ghost’s shirt with one hand for leverage and rolls his hips forward.
Ghost’s fingers slide through him and bump into his cock. Soap flutters his eyes shut, nods, and grinds on them. And when Ghost doesn’t stop him, he keeps grinding. The pads of his thick fingers are calloused, and they rub the sides of Soap’s dick just right, just the way he’s been needing it for fucking months. The way he’s been fantasizing about.
“Worked up,” Soap says, and opens his eyes, just slightly. Takes in as much of Ghost’s overwhelming form and that dispassionate mask as he can without coming instantly on his fingers. “Been too long…sir.”
Ghost makes a sound in the back of his throat at that, and Soap bites the inside of his lip until it bloodies to keep from smiling.
Cause Ghost’s giving him a very specific ache from being so much fucking bigger than him…but he’s also assuaging it by being into Soap. He’s, for lack of a better word, cool with this. It’s rare Soap gets to this point without giving someone a heads up about the whole having a cunt thing.
“Gonna get off like this?” Ghost’s eyes are dark behind the mask.
“Dunno, Lt.” Soap grinds harder at the invitation, though, and at Ghost’s low voice in his ear and the fact that it’s him and they’re doing this…
Ghost tilts his hand up and rubs the coarse heel of his palm into Soap’s cock. Like he knows what he’s fuckin’ doing.
“Shit—" Soap squeezes his eyes shut, his toes curl, and he peaks, riding his orgasm in shuddering waves, riding the roughness of Ghost’s fingers through it. When he finally stops, he can feel his slick dripping, pooling on Ghost’s hand.
“Jesus, Soap,” Ghost says. His voice is even lower than usual, sort of a reverent hush.
Truth be told, Soap’s always had an easy time getting himself off the first time, but he doesn’t tell Ghost as much. And Ghost doesn’t withdraw his fingers. Like he can’t bear to take his hand off Soap’s cunt now that he knows it exists, that it’s wet and aching for him.
Soap is hoping that’s his train of thought, at least.
“Told ye it’s been a while,” Soap says. He can’t stare up at Ghost too long, because Ghost is staring down at him, and it’s making Soap’s throat tight, and his ears burn hot.
So, instead of averting his eyes like a fuckin’ coward, he looks down and busies himself with undoing Ghost’s fatigues. He pops the button and unzips the zipper and fondles the considerable bulge in his boxers and tries to ignore Ghost’s hand in his own pants, still possessively cupping his cunt.
“Uh,” Soap says. “Hold on, I’ll—” He gets his own cargos undone and Ghost takes the hint and finally withdraws his hand. Soap wriggles his hips to get his pants and boxers shoved down his thighs and Ghost follows suit.
The thing is, Soap’s proud of his cock. It’s fat and sensitive, with more growth than he’d ever been expecting.
But Ghost pushes the head of his cock up against Soap’s, slots them together, and Soap stops breathing.
He’s huge. Pre-cum drools from his foreskin onto Soap’s dick, and Soap can’t stop staring down. Can’t stop perceiving the sheer size difference. Fuck.
“Fuck,” Soap says, accidentally out loud, and his empty cunt clenches around nothing.
For what it’s worth, Ghost is staring too. He rocks their dicks together and fists the shaft of his own. His jaw is so tight, grip even tighter, Soap can’t tell what emotion he’s supposed to be suppressing.
Soap can’t tell what he’s suppressing himself, really. Logically, he shouldn’t be this dripping wet over how big his lieutenant’s cock looks bumped up against his. It’s fighting with his pride and exacerbating envy he barely even knew he had over his superior.
Before he can dwell too hard on that line of thought, though, Ghost clears his throat and grabs Soap’s shoulder in a meaty grip.
“Turn around,” he says.
Soap follows the command before he can actually process it, and then he’s flat-palmed against the wall and Ghost is using that huge hand to spread his inner thighs, instead.
“Christ, Johnny,” Ghost says, hand curled around one sticky inside thigh. “Look at you.”
Soap wracks his mind for something smart to say back, but Ghost’s cock presses between his thighs and he startles.
“Easy,” Ghost says, and nudges further between his thighs, simple as all hell with how slick Soap’s gotten. “Not fucking you yet.”
Now Soap really wishes his brain would make with the snarky comebacks, because Soap wasn’t startling because he’s bloody afraid of getting fucked.
…It’s just that he doesn’t, really, very often, get fucked. It’s not his preference with any partner. And even now, as thoroughly unafraid as he is of getting railed from behind by his superior, he’s wondering why that preference has shifted. Why Ghost’s commanding presence and voice and the way his cock looked pressed against Soap’s is making him feel like this all sort of means something and he doesn’t necessarily trust Ghost to hold that something sacred like it deserves.
But dramatics aside…
…Soap wants this so badly he can feel his heart throbbing in his cunt.
Ghost grabs the cleft of his neck and right shoulder from behind and bullies Soap’s thighs with the other hand into position. Then he fully slots his cock between their apex and thigh-fucks him slow, dragging the shaft through his wet folds, skirting his swollen cock with every press forward. His thumb presses into the tender nerves between Soap’s shoulder blades and Soap arches, full body, like he’s an instrument being played. It pushes his arse further back and tightens the muscles of his thighs around Ghost, and Ghost groans for it, throaty and right by his ear.
“Bloody perfect, sergeant,” he says.
“Feels so fucking good, sir—haah—”
Soap reaches one hand back to grab Ghost’s thick thigh for leverage and he grinds down with each thrust, rubs the head of his cock into the head of Ghost’s and chases his second orgasm. He feels himself getting louder and his desperation is doing nothing to break the tension in the room, taut as the muscles in his strained back, so impenetrable Soap knows they can never come back from this.
They will never just be friends again, or just flirty-over-comms, but forever a subordinate whose had his thighs used by his lieutenant against a wall.
“Keep it down,” Ghost says, and the hand on his shoulder claps over Soap’s whining mouth instead. “But take what you need.”
Soap nods and clenches his teeth and breathes in the earthy, stale smell of Simon’s ungloved hand. It’s acidic smelling on top of everything, and Soap knows that’s his scent, rubbed deep into his porous skin, permeating the whorls in Ghost’s fingerprints.
Ghost is using him, sure. But Soap is getting exactly what he wants, too.
Soap stifles a groan into Ghost’s palm and doubles down, rutting his cock against Ghost’s shaft as he fucks the slick apex of his thighs. His eyebrows knit and his stomach twists, that second orgasm struggling to crest so soon after the first. Sometimes Ghost pulls back far enough that his cockhead catches on the tight rim of Soap’s cunt, and sometimes Soap’s not certain Ghost would keep from plunging inside him if he doesn’t keep shifting, keep positioning his thighs so that he can’t.
“C’mon, Johnny,” Ghost says, and pinches Soap’s outer thigh muscle when Soap repositions too far. “Keep ‘em tight for me.”
Soap squeezes his thighs together, mindlessly risking presenting his hole again, and Ghost smooths his huge hand over his pinched skin to soothe it, like he’s praising his obedience.
Soap’s brain seems to be so conditioned to follow orders from his lieutenant, it’s making him a little nervous. He has never felt this out of control in the bedroom before.
Then, Ghost drops his hand from Soap’s mouth and wraps both around his hips. His fingers splay over Soap’s lower stomach, under his t-shirt, and his thumbs dig into the small of his back. He can feel Ghost’s huge palms on his pelvic bones, cupping them, overwhelming them.
Ghost’s hands can nearly circle his waist.
And, devastatingly, it’s really fucking doing it for him.
“Fuck, Lt—”
Soap jerks his hips back on reflex. He grinds down one last time and surfaces into his orgasm, thighs squeezing and shaking around Ghost, cum dripping wet down his legs. It’s sustained by Ghost rutting between them, stimulating Soap’s cock in the aftershocks, until Soap shakes his head and grits his teeth and attempts to dismount.
And Ghost, hands firm on his hips still, almost doesn’t relent. For a considerable beat he stays buried between Soap’s thighs and Soap is unable to get away from the overstimulation—unable to overpower his lieutenant.
Soap suppresses a shiver at the thought.
He turns away from the wall once he’s allowed, but Ghost doesn’t back up, the big bastard. His cock is shiny with Soap’s slick, and centimetres from pressing up against Soap’s cock and unearthing all of those confusing feelings again, so Soap considers looking up at Ghost’s face to be the lesser of two evils for once.
“Had enough?” Ghost asks. His mask is still shoved up to his nose, and his lips are kiss-bitten. Because of Soap.
Soap blinks.
“That’s one hell of a question, sir,” he says, regaining his confidence. He’s responsible for Ghost’s swollen lower lip and for the pink encroaching on the sides of his pale neck and for the way Ghost’s eyes have gone so dark behind the mask they might just be pupils. “Haven’t got you off just yet, have I?”
Ghost makes another, rough sound in his throat that would sound overly confident if not for the deepening blush on his neck. “Could fuck you on the wall,” he says, after a beat, like he’s offering something generous.
…And it’s tempting, knowing how much their size difference is getting him off.
But instead, Soap nods his head at the bed behind them. He can’t give up all the control. Not yet.
“Like I said, it’s been a while for me. Probably best lying down.”
Ghost steps away from where he’s caged Soap to the wall for the last two orgasms, and Soap takes the biggest breath he’s had in just as long. Something about sharing close quarters with his lieutenant made even his lungs feel smaller.
He sits on the edge of the bed and yanks off his boots, kicks off his cargos and boxers, and lays out on his back in just his rumpled t-shirt, knees propped up. He watches Ghost undress in turn, while Ghost watches him dip his fingers into his cunt.
Soaked…yes. But it’s been so long since Soap’s let someone fuck him, he’s tight in a way that makes even looking at Ghost’s monster dick sort of painful.
“Got condoms in my duffel,” Ghost says, without taking his eyes off Soap’s index and middle finger half-disappeared into his pussy. It’s all that he can take without feeling a distinct stretch. He’s hoping that’ll change fast.
“No need,” Soap says, and tilts his head back onto the pillow, bites his lip when he adds a third finger. “Been on the pill long as I can remember.”
Ghost huffs a sound that Soap is horny enough to pretend is disappointment.
Then, Ghost crawls onto the bed and grabs Soap’s wrist. He’s fully naked except for the mask, and something about that choice seems tender and sacred. It staggers Soap’s breathing again and he doesn’t think to protest when Ghost pulls his hand away from his cunt, gets on his stomach, and hooks Soap’s ankles over his shoulders.
Soap’s speechless, really. This is his oft stoic superior tucked between his legs. He never looked this soft and vulnerable in his fantasies. Soap digs his hands into the sheets on either side and chews on the inside of his lip and says, “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead, Lt.”
Ghost spreads his pussy open with two fingers and thumbs back the hood of his cock with his other hand.
And for a beat, he just stays like that.
Tucked between his legs.
Looking at Soap’s cunt.
And Soap realizes, in a revelation that both tugs at those aching crossed wires and burns hot in his groin, that Ghost isn’t just cool with Soap’s pussy.
He seems to prefer it.
“C’mon, sir,” Soap says, because he’s not ready to internalize that. Certainly not ready to watch Ghost admire his cunt. He wriggles his hips a bit. “Get me ready for ye.”
Ghost, for what it’s worth, doesn’t hesitate to move on. He grabs his hips, smothering them with those huge fucking hands again, and licks into Soap. And repeats. And then, with a grunt, he pulls Soap’s hips as close as he can to his face and squeezes his fingers till Soap can see the lines of fingerprinted bruises in his mind’s eye and says, growls really, “Fucking hell, Johnny.”
Soap’s not quite sure he didn’t actually get shot during that mission and this—Ghost feral between his legs over his cunt—isn’t some fucked-up nitrous dream in the hospital.
He works at licking Soap open, one finger and that fat tongue plunged into him, gradually stretching. Then he sucks his cock into his mouth, instead, and Soap drops his head onto the pillow with a loud protest of the bedsprings and digs his heels into Ghost’s back.
“Fuck, hold on,” Soap says, and taps one of his heels, sort of insistently. “Already got off twice, y’can’t—"
“Need to relax before I can fuck you,” Ghost says, after pulling his mouth off his cock. “Third one’ll do you good.”
He shoves two of his fingers this time into Soap to the knuckle, and it’s a stretch that Soap feels down to his toes when Ghost curls them.
“Besides,” Ghost continues. “I’ll decide how many times we get that little prick of yours to go off.”
Steamin’ bloody Jesus.
Soap fists the sheets and shakes his head, digs those heels in harder to Ghost’s shoulders to feel less out of control. Because Ghost’s not just bigger and stronger than him. He’s got a mental grip on Soap’s fuckin’ autonomy. Not only does Soap feel near-conditioned by the sound of his lieutenant’s voice—which is a serious bloody issue extended to the bedroom—but Ghost seems to think it goes without saying that Soap’s body and mind and cock are his to direct.
And Soap, as much as he’s loath to admit it, as much as he’s never felt this way for anyone else—is discovering he’s really, really fucking into it.
Ghost gets his mouth back on Soap’s cock, then, mercilessly sucks at him, pistons his fingers in and out until he’s able to shove three of them in. It’s a snug fit, and Soap focuses on squeezing around them, pulling them as deep into his cunt as possible. It’s either that or focus on the white-hot jolting pleasure around his cock, finely threaded with pain from overstimulation.
Ghost’s insistence aside, Soap’s positive he won’t be able to come a third time that easy. He shakily sits up on his elbows to state his case again.
Then, Ghost pulls off his cock and grinds the pad of his thumb into it instead.
His thumb is over twice the size of Soap’s cock.
The pleasure cuts off the pain at the base, and Soap comes hard with a whine. It’s involuntary, unexpected, and makes his hips jerk and twitch, makes his voice escape in high-pitched little exhalations despite how hard he tries to stay quiet. He tries to shift back and away, but Ghost pins his hips down.
“There you go,” Ghost says, while Soap spasms, overstimulated, hips held so sturdy to the mattress regardless of how much he struggles that it makes him want to double the time he spends in the gym. “Let’s give you a break.”
Ghost gets up from between Soap’s legs and crawls onto his chest, trapping him with massive thighs on either side of his neck. Soap is cum-drunk, momentarily, body weak with pleasure, and lets his superior get on top of him without question. After three brutal orgasms, he owes him reciprocation, after all.
His lieutenant has never looked bigger than he does right now: looming over Soap, entirely taking up his vision above him. His cock hangs heavy and rests against Soap’s cheek. Soap parts his mouth, eager to be good and give Ghost what he owes him.
Ghost grabs his chin and spits in his open mouth. Soap snaps back into himself, blinking away the high from his orgasm.
Jesus H. Christ. Soap should have grown the balls to show Ghost his cunt months ago.
Soap grins and sticks his tongue out to show Ghost his spit, and then tucks it back in, swallows, licks his lips with relish.
“You’re fuckin’ mad, Lt,” he says, and flips his train of thought back on him: “Thank Christ you finally grew the balls to come on to me.”
Ghost smiles, God save him, and briefly looks at Soap with something he can only place as fondness. Soap opens his mouth again to redirect his attention and avoid letting his heart get tied up in whatever that is.
Ghost takes the invitation and sticks his thumb between Soap’s teeth, and Soap lightly bites down. He sucks the digit into his mouth and makes a show of it, lubing it up with spit, moaning a little. Ghost’s fondness dissolves into dark-eyed need soon enough. He withdraws his thumb and feeds Soap his cock instead, Soap’s lips stretching around the head, then stretching further to take the fat shaft into his mouth.
Ghost doesn’t take it slow, either. Once he sees Soap’s mouth on his cock, he shifts his position, almost pressing too much weight right onto Soap’s neck, and slides all the way inside until Soap’s nose is in his thick, musky, reddish-blonde pubic hair.
“That’s it, sergeant,” Ghost says, his cockhead bumping the back of Soap’s throat. Soap flushes, something about Ghost calling upon his subordinate title with his dick stretching Soap’s mouth wide open and pressing on his gag reflex too much to bear. “That’s what a proper sized cock feels like.”
Soap almost chokes, and flushes even harder.
Steamin’ Jesus. He’d fuckin’ clock anyone else who talked to him like that.
But now, here, coming from Ghost and only Ghost—his little cock throbs for the degradation.
“Look good like this,” Ghost says. Soap wonders if him being stuffed silent, a captive audience, has Ghost more talkative. That and the whisky, probably. “Greedy for it, too. Knew you wanted this, but…”
Ghost fists Soap’s mohawk to hold his head firm to the bed, and rocks his hips, fucks his mouth in one slow, complete thrust, withdrawing to the tip only to bury to the back of Soap’s bruised throat.
“…I didn’t know about that pretty cunt you’ve been hiding from me.”
Soap keens, involuntarily, and his hips jerk on the bed, his pretty cunt seeking friction. Ghost just repeats, and repeats, properly face-fucking him, giving him only enough time to gasp for air between thrusts. Soap can do nothing but lie there and take it, pinned by his head and chest and neck. Nothing but lie there and stare, wide and teary eyed, up at his lieutenant using his throat.
Ghost looking soft and vulnerable between his legs before he ate Soap out…that had been unexpected.
But this is plucked right out of Soap’s worst fantasies about his superior.
Spit gathers thick in the corners of Soap’s mouth between thrusts, drips down his chin and neck. He does his best to keep his teeth tucked behind his lips, to swallow around Ghost’s cock, to make it good for him. But Ghost doesn’t seem concerned with that. He’s fully focused on himself, like he’s chasing his orgasm and Soap’s mouth just happens to be the place he’s finding it.
Then, all at once, he withdraws for the last time. He sits back, cock spit-slick and resting on Soap’s neck, and leans down as if to kiss him.
Soap cranes his neck for it, eager to taste himself, but Ghost spits in his mouth again. Slow, this time, letting the saliva fall and string and break.
Soap keeps his mouth open until he’s sure Ghost is done, swallows it just as graciously as the first time, and opens his mouth again.
And, briefly, that fondness crests over Ghost’s face once more. Soap closes his mouth and averts his eyes and, after a beat, says, “Ready for you now, sir.”
Ghost dismounts him and repositions between his legs, pulling his knees astride his hips. Soap sort of can’t believe his stoic lieutenant who just near skull-fucked him is about to bang him in missionary, and he’s getting too deep into his head trying to reconcile Ghost’s cruel words with his fond expression, his material actions with Soap’s own sordid fantasies.
Then, Ghost’s leaking cockhead presses against the still-too-tight opening to Soap’s cunt, and Soap snaps back to reality.
It’s going to fuckin’ hurt. But one thing Soap knows for certain is that, coming from Ghost—he wants it to.
Soap’s so wet he can hear Ghost’s cockhead rubbing against his slit, and he knows based on how sticky his neck is with saliva that Ghost’s dick is slick with spit, but all the lube in the world isn’t enough to quell the hot tightness in Soap’s chest and the ruthless stretch of his cunt when Ghost starts pushing inside him without stopping.
“Shit, Lt—fuck!”
Soap throws an arm over his eyes and arches his neck, groans through his teeth. Ghost is merciless, leaning over Soap as he bottoms out, those fat balls resting against his arse. Miraculously, he stops there, buried inside Soap, and Soap uses the moment to catch his breath and uncover his face.
Ghost doesn’t wait for his go-ahead. As soon as he sees Soap isn’t passed out or crying—and even then, Soap’s not entirely positive those circumstances would stop him from going forward—he withdraws, just as completely as he did his throat, and fucks him deep again.
Not just deep, but hard. Insistent. Ghost pounds his pussy, forearms braced astride Soap’s head, chest-to-chest, like he’s trying to prove something.
Or maybe just like a guy who hasn’t nut yet, really, Soap recognizes.
So Soap buries both hands in Ghost’s mask, as if he’s grabbing handfuls of hair, and arches his back to let himself be taken entirely. It does hurt, that deep stretch, Ghost’s thick cock spreading his cunt to the limit, but he’s so worked up and slicked open that more than anything it just pools warm pleasure in his stomach. Ghost’s pubic bone clips Soap’s cock each time he buries deep, and Soap starts building up to that fourth orgasm, shaking, tightening his legs around Ghost’s back to make sure he can’t deny him the friction.
“No one’s fucked you like this?” Ghost asks, suddenly, and Soap loses control of his voice box for a second. Ghost’s thrusting slower now, making each one count, railing deep to kiss Soap’s cervix and joining their hips.
“Not in years,” Soap says, corrects, and Ghost’s thrusting lands noticeably harder, angrier, so Soap continues, “Years and years, Lt. Fuckin’ ages.”
Ghost sits up now, still deep inside him, and fucks him like that, stares down at where he’s splitting Soap’s cunt open over and over. Soap waits for him to continue his train of thought, but his lieutenant isn’t all that skilled with verbalizing his emotions, and the dark eyes behind his mask are saying everything Soap’s too terrified to hear out loud, anyway.
Mine, mine, mine.
Then Ghost goes still, cervix-deep, his eyes fixed on Soap’s stomach. Soap follows his gaze.
It’s barely-there—Soap’s not that small for fucks sake—but there’s the slightest bulge where Ghost is pressed up on his guts from the inside.
“No fuckin’ way,” Soap says, breathy, reaching to rest his palm on the faint distension. “Jesus, sir…”
Ghost’s hips grind into his, like he’s trying to go even deeper, trying to shift Soap’s guts around visibly even more, and Soap groans, both uncomfortable and too turned on to function. He stays buried inside and puts one huge hand over Soap’s where he’s distending his stomach. His hand overshadows Soap’s hand, practically covers Soap’s abdomen fully spread. For Christ’s sake, Ghost’s cock is so bloody big it’s telling the goddamn world he’s inside Soap.
Those crossed wires are more difficult than ever to understand. Soap can feel himself slick up around his lieutenant even more, he can feel his lower stomach knot in favor, feel his whole body betray his mind and try to convince him that he wants to feel like this: smaller and weaker than he ever has in his life.
Before he can convince himself whether Ghost deserves the privilege to know this side of him, Ghost grinds his huge thumb into Soap’s little cock again, and Soap goes off on contact.
“Fuck, fuck, haah—” Soap shudders around Ghost’s cock, and Ghost pets him through it until Soap is grabbing at his wrist with both hands, whining please and stop and sir.
Soap tries not to think too hard about Ghost coercing him through a fourth orgasm while he was stuck in the dissonance of being turned on by how small Ghost makes him feel. He doesn’t want to admit Ghost can condition him any more than he already has.
Ghost finally withdraws again, grabs Soap’s hips, and uses his body to get off. Soap’s autonomy is fully removed from the equation, Ghost just pulling him on and off his cock with ease. Soap’s overstimulated and still begging, almost having an out-of-body experience hearing himself plead with his lieutenant—too much and can’t take it and come inside me, please—but it doesn’t take long for Ghost to near his own climax. He folds over Soap onto his forearms once more and groans through his teeth, hips pistoning until they shiver and go still, entirely bottomed-out inside Soap when he shoots deep into him.
For longer than Soap expects, Ghost stays there, their chests pressed together, hearts slowing. In Soap’s fantasies, Ghost always left without a word as soon as he was done using Soap. Soap knows that says more about him than it does about Ghost.
When Ghost does sit up, Soap can’t bear to meet his eyes at first. He brings Soap his water bottle from across the room and makes him sit up on the headboard and drink it while he wipes Soap’s inner thighs down with a towel.
And when Soap finally makes eye contact with his lieutenant, he sees his swollen lip, the hot flush that extends far beyond his neck. That flicker of fondness in his eyes and mouth before he pulls his mask back down over his chin. Nothing out of Soap’s fantasies, but real and dangerous and reconnecting some of those crossed wires. Maybe.
“Yer not exactly what I expected, sir,” Soap says, once Ghost is done cleaning him up.
Ghost stands and digs through his duffel bag across the room, and then he tosses Soap a pair of his boxers. Soap’s are soaked-through on the ground somewhere, so he’s glad to pull them on.
“You’re stronger than I thought you’d be,” Ghost says. “Could barely hold your bloody hips down.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Soap says, but then he laughs, and catches himself admiring Ghost’s biceps with fondness of his own.
For the most part, Ghost’s boxers fit him.