Chapter Text
It’s hot as shit out in the desert. Soap isn’t sure why no one between here and the Scottish highlands had pointed out that it might be a bit warmer than he’s used to. Honestly he’s not sure why that never occurred to him himself. Regardless, it’s hot as shit, and you can take the alpha out of Scotland, but you can’t take Scotland out of the alpha. Even after seven years of this relentless sun and scorching heat, Soap only has the tan to show for it, none of the heat resistance that seems to come naturally to the locals.
Seven whole years, Soap can scarcely believe it, since he picked up sticks and bought a one way boat ticket to come to the USA and try to find his feet. It worked too, in a way; he’s got his land, his ranch, his sheep and he’s also got quite a bit of money set aside. He’s made tidy earnings thanks to the small herd of hardy sheep he brought with him, sturdy stock with great resilience which he’s successfully bred with the local animals to produce a ewe with good fleece and meat.
Tablet, his border collie, yips at his side; she’s done for the day, and frankly, so is Soap. Dust is coiling up and looming over him, surrounding his head and coating every inch of exposed, sweaty skin he hadn’t managed to cover with the bandana. Even his eyelashes feel grimy, and he honestly can’t wait for a bath.
He literally can’t wait, he decides, and veers his horse off the well trod path between field and ranch. He aims for the stream which runs down the length of the property, the one that acts as an almost perfect boundary line between him and the wild un-owned tract of land on the other side.
The creek is cool and fast flowing, comes down off the mountains crystal clear and it’s shallow enough he’s not quite in danger of being swept away when he strips off and wades in. He leaves his clothes on the bank, frankly hard pushed to decide whether he’d rather ride back sopping wet or tip to toe dusty.
His horse seems grateful for the rest either way as she tucks into some grass, and Soap can’t find it in himself to tie her off and limit her. She’s a good girl and even if she does bolt she’s only going to go home, which is less than a mile from here, walkable even at this temperature.
The water is heaven, ice cold and instantly washing the thick, cloying blanket of dust from his skin. He ducks down to wet his head, hat lying with the rest of his clothes, and scrubs a hand through his hair to sluice the worst of the sweat out of it.
It truly is beautiful out here, light tree cover dappling the sunlight, blue sky meeting grey mountains in the distance, pale scrub and cactuses as far as the eye can see still holding so much life, birds and lizards and snakes and all manner of other critters. The crickets are thick, loud enough he can almost feel their hum in his molars.
Soap lies back on a sun drenched rock jutting from the centre of the water and closes his eyes, lets everything simply wash over him for as long as he can.
He’s a busy man these days. This entire operation is run by only him, sure he’ll take on the odd ranch hand when they wander through and need to earn some cash, but he’s never much enjoyed it. They’re nearly always alphas and right knothead ones at that, none of them likes being told what to do and Soap’s own alpha instinct usually ends up biting him in the arse before their agreed season is done.
He’s had a few betas, and they’ve usually worked out better, less friction since they pose no real threat to him, he’s even talked a couple of them into bed, but he still finds the presence of another person, someone not pack, in his home to be grating. He’s nearly always glad when their term is up, ready for his peace once again.
The town isn’t a long ride, Soap knows himself well enough to know how much he loves companionship, friends, and he heads to mainstreet when it’s time for that, meets his friends at the sketchy bar run by another expat, Price, a man who doesn’t share much about his past but who walks with military bearing and has that same gruff manner.
Tablet yips, and Soap cracks an eye in her direction. He can’t see her over the bank but he listens closely, doesn’t hear anything more, and relegates the noise to a figment of his imagination, or at least, nothing to worry about.
“Oi, this your horse?” Soap startles up so violently he nearly falls off the rock, flails frantically to catch himself. There’s a man staring at him.
A fucking huge man, if Soap’s seeing him right, he’s a fair distance away but even from here Soap can see the breadth of his shoulders, the miles and miles of thick muscled leg wrapped in denim. He’s got to have at least two or three inches on Soap, and while his face is covered by a black bandana with the lower half of a skull painted on it, Soap can see he’s gorgeous, no doubt about that.
There’s a Colt .45 on his hip, the cleanest part of him, clearly well oiled and well taken care of, more than you usually see in this part of the country. Soap makes a note of it, anyone who takes care of their gun that well clearly knows how to use it.
His voice is rich, deep and gravelly the way Soap has always enjoyed listening to, and he’s English. Normally that would be a blot of his copy book but out here, well, it’s close enough to home to be worth wanting to listen to.
“Your horse?” The stranger says again “This her?” He holds up her reins in a calfskin glove so well made it’s practically one with his flesh.
“Aye. Who’s asking?” The man looks around him dramatically, throws a hand up to his brow to enhance it.
“Well, seeing as I’m the only fucker out here, I’d guess that’d be me.”
“And you are?” Soap tries again.
“Bored of this. Your horse was wandering off, she’d got a fair way too, might want to think about tying her off next time.” Soap isn’t sure how, but he’s pretty sure he sees the man smirk under his mask. “Might want to think about britches too, think your cock might be sunburned.”
“Worry about yer own cock, ye rascal.” Soap stops trying to cover himself with his hands, if this man wants to talk about his cock he can damn well look at it while he does. “This is private land, yer trespassin’.”
“Yeah.” The man shrugs. “So’re you.” Soap’s tired of trying to yell back and forth, he swipes his clothes, makes a point of putting on his hat before anything else, yanks filthy trousers on and winces when it sticks to his damp skin. Throws his shirt on and scrambles up the slope before bothering to button it. The stranger, notably, doesn’t look away.
From closer Soap can tell the height difference is more marked than he’d thought, more like five or six inches than three, and his shoulders are broader too, trunk thick and strong, built for heavy lifting and honed by the same. Soap surreptitiously sniffs the air, can’t pick up the alpha scent he was expecting, the man must just be an unusually large beta.
“How’d’ye figure?” Soap raises an eyebrow, cocks his head enough to meet his eye under the brim of his hat without craning his neck.
“You’re out here too, no? Starkers at that.”
“Seem awfully concerned about my nudity, stranger.” The man barks out a huff of laughter.
“Simply surprised.” His shoulders relax and the man seems to shake off some of the tension he’d been stiff with. “Look, I’m out here looking for a ‘Soap MacTavish’. Heard he owns this ranch and I’m looking for work, Price sent me.”
“Aye, he does.” Soap says warily, Price has sent him workers before, but never without warning Soap first.
“Any idea where I might find him?”
“Probably up at the house, ye can follow me, if ye’d like?” Soap doesn’t know why he’s doing this, why he isn’t just telling him, but something about this beta is making him feel playful, light. Makes him want to poke and prod and push until he sees him snap.
Christ maybe he just wants to fuck him. It’s been a while since Soap had a good go of it.
“Obliged.” The man nods once, turns to head back over to his horse. The horse, like her owner, is fucking huge. Some sort of draught breed, grey and dappled and largely unsuited to the trekking life of a ranch hand. Soap’s not sure how he expects to be herding anything on her.
Soap’s own mare seems to have taken an interest in her, is edging closer and stretching the stranger’s grip on her reins to the limit. The man drops them, wanders over to his own horse and despite her ridiculous height, mounts her easily, those huge thighs spreading across the saddle. Soap resolutely does not look at the way the denim hugs his tensed muscle.
They ride in silence, the man is clearly not one of many words. He’d pulled a hat off the pommel of the saddle and was riding with it low over his eyes, a shield to any further conversation. Pitch black, like the shirt and mask, though all of it tinted yellow-grey with dust.
Tablet runs circles around them, apparently herding them home, and for all his silence the beta does occasionally call commands just to see if she’ll obey them. She does, for the most part, soppy creature.
The house doesn’t take long to come into sight. It’s not much, positively quaint for the size of the ranch, but it does the job. There’s three bedrooms, plenty of living space, but ranch hands usually stay in the small room over the barn.
“He live alone here?” The man grunts, but he doesn’t sound like he’s prying, just surprised. “No pretty omega stashed away somewhere?”
“Just him,” Soap answers, “and the hands. Garrick, from the general store, comes out to help out in the busy season sometimes, a few others too.” He quietly doesn’t mention that currently there’s no one out here, just him.
Soap dismounts first, points the beta to the hitching post and water. “I’ll run and get Soap for ye. Tablet, in.” She runs ahead of him and waits, pushes past him into the house when he enters. Soap has no idea why he’s taking the bit this far, but nevertheless he runs upstairs, changes his clothes as fast as he can, switches out his hat, and turns to stare at the dog.
“Fuck am I doin’?” She yips in answer, which doesn’t help at all, and Soap huffs and heads back downstairs.
At the front door he inhales to steel himself, marches forward and flings it open, “John MacTavish, howdy do?” he does a piss poor American accent and throws his hand out as he strides towards the, mildly startled looking, stranger.
“You?” The man blinks twice. “MacTavish.” he mutters, eyes widening. “Scottish, I should’ve known. You’re kind of a bastard, eh Johnny?” He says, but he’s laughing under the mask, crows feet creasing the corners of his eyes.
“Aye, probably.” Soap grins back. “What can I call ye though? Still keepin yer own secrets.”
“Ghost.” The man takes Soap’s hand and shakes it. “People call me Ghost.”
“Well, Ghost,” Soap is still shaking his hand, can’t quite bring himself to release his grip just yet, likes the way their calluses slot together, “welcome aboard.”
“That easy?” Ghost looks as taken aback by that as any of the rest of it.
“Aye, ye said Price sent ye? That’s enough for me.” Ghost gives him an appraising look, runs his eyes over him, the look slow and heavy enough for Soap to think just maybe there was more to it. Just maybe Ghost saw something he liked.
Ghost finally slides his hand from Soap’s, fingers dragging across his palm as he does. “Where do you want me?” He asks, in my bed Soap thinks and then hooks a hand over his shoulder to the barn. “There’s a room in half the hayloft, a water pump round the back. Get washed up and settled, then come up to the house for dinner when yer ready.”
“You don’t have to-”
“Pshh.” Soap waves him off. “I’d feel like a right bastard, leaving you out here eating canned beans when there’s far more food than just I can eat. Turn,” Soap gestures expectantly at Ghost’s behemoth of a horse.
“Last.”
“Last? What kind of a name is ‘Last’.”
“Hers.” Ghost answers, deadpan, and Soap cracks a laugh.
“Yeah, alright, turn Last out into the paddock, give her all the hay ye want. Mind doing Thistle too?” He nods at his own horse and Ghost nods in answer. “I’ll get started on the dinner.”
Soap turns away to head back to the house, Tablet, the little traitor, stays with Ghost, who—along with being huge and beautiful—doesn’t even have the decency to be bad with animals.
-
Ghost doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him. Soap. Bloke toys with him for an age, has fucking mischief written all over his features. Keeps smiling at Ghost too, grinning at him like he means it when he says he’s welcome for dinner, like he thinks Ghost is funny. The man is clearly out of his mind, far too quick to accept this random stranger into his home. One who could bring all sorts of trouble to his door.
In Ghost’s case, almost certainly one who will.
One who has so much baggage he could fill a railcar.
So, Soap is insane, clearly, and Ghost may be no better off having run away from his old life to this one, into the jaws of this unknown alpha with a smile like sunshine and a really nice cock and the stupidest fucking hair Ghost has ever seen.
But fuck, does he smell good.
Soap, like everyone else on this side of the Atlantic, (and most people on the other side) doesn’t do a single thing to cover his scent. Warm and sweaty like he was earlier, Christ even fresh out of that creek, Soap smells perfect.
Soap smells like hay and the cool air of late evening and the damp of spring when it clings to the moors on an island thousands of miles behind him.
Ghost wants to roll in it, wants to crawl into Soap’s arms and absorb it until he never smells anything else.
And he needs to nip that in the bud right now , needs to ignore the ache between his thighs at the mere thought of that perfect alpha scent. What he really needs is to get washed up and dressed for dinner.
He’s limited for options, but he still agonises before finally choosing his nicest shirt and a pair of linen trousers he’d taken when. Well. A pair of linen trousers. There’s a film of sweat and dust across his skin, a long day's ride in the sun will do that, but he’d seen a pump out the back of the barn as he came in, and he’s out of sight of the house.
He strips outside, not really keen to spread (more) dust across the blankets of the hayloft bed, the water is cool, divine on overheated skin. He feels like he can breathe properly for the first time as the water sluices over him, washes grime and heat away and leaves him feeling more level than he has for who knows how long.
His clothes lie in a heap on the floor as he begins to wash, has to contort into some strange angles to get all of him under the tap but Christ is it worth it, feeling cool, fresh water slide between his legs, down to his feet. He dries off with a clean spare sheet he’d found upstairs, pulls his trousers and gloves on and is just working on his boots when Soap appears.
“Fucking shite, I’m sorry Ghost, didnae mean to interrupt.” Soap’s slapped a hand over his eyes, or at least tried to, his hand was full with some sort of bag and so mainly he’s smothering himself.
Ghost, against his better judgement, smiles. He ties his bandana back on before clearing his throat.
“You can look, I’m not exactly a blushing maiden.” He’s not, but Soap looks like one as he lowers his hand. Cheeks pink and eyes resolutely fixed over Ghost’s shoulder. Ghost knows he looks good, knows his body is strong and powerful and why the fuck does he feel kind of offended that Soap won’t look at him.
Ghost swings his clean shirt on over his shoulders and dithers with the buttons until Soap relaxes enough to look at him properly.
“What can I do for you?” Ghost asks, and drops the shirt to reveal he’d fastened exactly zero buttons, leaving his torso on display. Soap squeaks, but this time he doesn’t look away.
“Um.” Soap swallows hard. “Uh, it’s more what I can do for you.”
“Oh I’m sure you could do plenty.” Ghost grins, and perhaps this is a little cruel, considering he doesn’t plan to follow through on any of this flirting no matter how much he might want to, but he’s allowed to have fun once in a while, “But what did you have in mind?”
“Wash ye?” Soap says, and then seems to shake himself out of it and scrambles, “Yer clothes! Wash yer clothes, I’ll be doing laundry anyway, seems only fair, aye?”
Ghost inclines his head, starts to actually fasten the buttons on his shirt, leaves the neck open since even though they’re having dinner, there won’t be any ladies present.
“Thank you.” Ghost nods, takes the bag Soap holds out to him and absolutely does not feel sparks shoot through his fingertips when they brush Soap’s hand. He stuffs his dirty things in, and falls into step beside Soap as they stroll back to the house. He feels a little naked without his hat, but he supposes he’ll have to get used to it. If he’s staying here for the long haul Soap will see him worse than hatless he’s sure.
Dinner, Ghost decides almost immediately, was a terrible mistake.
To start with, he’d somehow overlooked the fact that agreeing to dinner in Soap’s kitchen meant removing his mask, and while in crowded saloons or cantinas it wasn’t too much of a concern, one on one, here? In a quiet kitchen with an alpha? It was something else entirely.
He unties the bandana carefully, takes his time and pretends he doesn’t see Soap watching rapt from over at the basin. He knows what he looks like, he’s been told often enough by enough people to know he’s a good looking man, even with the scars now marring some of the skin. The main problem, the one that could be about to bring this whole nice evening crashing down around his ears, is the posters.
Ghost has no way of knowing if Soap had been into town recently enough to see the posters with his face plastered all over them.
Price is pretty good at getting to them quick, Garrick too when he sees them, but there’s no guarantees that Soap hasn’t just happened to have had bad timing enough to have spotted them.
Ghost folds the bandana carefully and slips it into his pocket before finally raising his gaze to Soap, who is… busy stirring the stew and making absolutely no mention of the fact that Ghost has even revealed his face, let alone that he’s seen wanted posters of him all over town.
Well. Alright then.
Soap, it turns out, can cook. He’s made a mutton stew, and Ghost has had plenty of that in his life, usually tough as old boots and as brown as it is flavourless. Soap’s is not. It only takes one bite for Simon to be addicted, it’s rich, salty, and there’s enough herbs in there to have it rivalling some of the finer meals Ghost has eaten at—
Well. Some of the finer meals he’s had, which is saying something. There’s fresh bread to go with it, thickly sliced and substantial enough to sop up the extra sauces. Fucking hell, there’s dried apricots mixed in, sweetness cutting through the richness of the fatty meat. Ghost thinks he might moan, a little.
“It’s good.” He says, unnecessarily, since Soap is watching him like a hawk and has a little smirk on his lips like he can tell exactly how much Simon is enjoying his cooking.
“Aye?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Soap is grinning, a little pink highlighting his cheekbones. Christ, he’s pretty. A good alpha too, if he can cook this well when he’s just knocking together whatever he’s got lying around.
“Looks like the sun didn’t catch you too bad in the end.” Ghost says, eyes trailing over the exposed hollow of Soap’s throat, he just can’t help himself, something about Soap is drawing him in, calling to him.
“Ye would say that, ye’ve no’ seen my cock.”
“Not in,” Ghost pulls out his pocket watch, makes a show of checking it “several hours now anyway. Could’ve shrivelled up and fallen off in that time.”
“Oh I can promise ye,” Soap purrs “it most certainly hasn’t.”
Ghost swings his gaze up to Soap’s, ready to trade some verbal jab back, but when he does he sees that Soap may still be toying with him, but his eyes are fixed on Ghost’s watch.
His gold filigree pocket watch.
The one that is clearly way too expensive for some random ranch hand to have come into possession of by honest means.
The one with a very highly recognisable monogram.
Shit.
Ghost snaps the watch shut and stuffs it into his pocket, as if somehow that can force Soap to unsee it.
“Didn’t take ye for a rich bastard.” Soap says, slowly, calculated to be a joke, if Ghost wants, or not if he doesn’t.
“Because I’m not.” Ghost says, gentle because it’s not Soap’s fault, but firm, because Soap is a nosy prick.
To his credit Soap takes it in stride. Nods and tosses his hands up in the air in submission, smoothly transitions the conversation back onto safer terrain. Fuck it all if that doesn’t just make Ghost like him more.
They keep dinner conversation light, breezy, trade stories from back in the day, swap jokes and jabs like old friends. Ghost can admit he’s a bit of a prickly bastard, at first acquaintance, but dammit if Soap hasn’t managed to steamroll right through those barriers and into his heart without even trying that hard.
Jesus, Ghost has got to get a grip.
He helps himself to seconds of dinner, because it’s just so damn good, and when he’s wiped his plate clean with the last of his bread he finds himself leaning in each time Soap talks, and he’s not quite able to convince himself that it isn’t in the hopes of catching a trace of that scent again. He’s painfully aware of his own, of the fact that he’d washed and that it’s been hours since he last took the tincture he uses to suppress his scent.
He’s dangerously close to just saying ‘fuck it all’, to letting his scent loose just to see how Soap would react.
With any luck, Soap would react by tossing him down on the nearest piece of furniture and fucking him senseless.
“Do ye want a nightcap?” Soap’s face is lit by the flickering of the candle on the table, shadows throwing that pouty bottom lip into stark relief, flame lighting his bronzed skin gold, his blue eyes navy.
Fuck, Simon is in so much trouble.
“What you offering?” He asks with a lifted eyebrow, tongue feeling thick in his mouth as Soap reaches beneath the table, pulls out a hip flask.
“Bourbon, sadly.”
“Nectar of the gods, that.”
“They wish.” Soap takes a swig, winces just a little at the burn as Ghost watches the line of his throat bob. Fucking hell how does he even make swallowing look indecent?
“Who?”
“Americans.” Soap scoffs “They tried to improve on Scotch, but they’ve never quite managed it.”
“I hate to break it to you, Soap, but they very much did.” Soap’s mouth drops open in outrage, clearly ready to launch into a tirade, but Simon soldiers on “Scotland has produced certain other things I’m a fan of though.” and he lets his eyes roam once down across Soap’s torso before sliding back up to his face.
“Like?” Soap asks, and his voice is low, gravelly in the way Ghost has always liked. He delays answering by reaching over and taking the flask from Soap’s hand, brings it to his own mouth and imagines he can taste Soap when he presses the opening against his lips. The bourbon washes across his tongue like an old friend, warm and familiar.
A satisfied moan claws its way up out of his throat, it’s the good stuff, Soap clearly doesn’t cheap out on alcohol. He generously doesn’t mention the way Soap’s eyes darken as he watches him, or the way he shifts in his seat, the way a hint of arousal begins to trickle into the edges of his scent.
“Poetry.” Ghost says finally, taking another swig, tongue darting out to catch the bead of amber liquid clinging to the throat of the flask when he finishes.
“Aye, we’ve a way with the arts.”
“You a poet?” Ghost asks, holding the flask back out and watching with rapt attention as Soap gets his mouth back on it, hint of his tongue tracing the place Ghost’s had just been.
“No.” Soap says finally. “Not a poet.”
“Musician?” and that makes Soap laugh, a real one that transforms his face and makes him look terribly young.
“Portraitist.”
“Any good?” Soap’s smile winds down until it’s more contained, though no less beautiful, lingering now only at the corners of his mouth and eyes.
“Not bad.” He shrugs, easy as anything, and lets the smile reduce further, change and reshape until it’s a smoulder, heated and crackling. “I can show you, if you like? I’ve a fair few upstairs…”
And there it is.
The offer Ghost knew damn well he’d get if he kept pushing, the one he knows he can’t accept, no matter how much he wants to.
Ghost finally breaks their gaze, ducks his head just a little, aiming for demure and hoping it doesn’t miss and land at embarrassed.
“Perhaps in the morning.” He says, and they both know it’s a rejection, no matter how gentle. Soap doesn’t reply for a while, simply watches him, eyes searching Ghost’s face for something that has him aching to tie his bandana back on.
“Alright.” Soap says, finally, and mystifyingly the smile is back, though this one is small, private, only meant for himself.
“Goodnight, Johnny.” Ghost says, standing and reaching for a hat he didn’t even bring with him. He reties the mask instead, feels more settled the minute it’s back on, like he has more control.
“Goodnight, Ghost.”
Tablet decides to haul herself off her spot on the hearth to follow Ghost out the door, and honestly he appreciates the company. He feels a little unmoored, lost, something about the ease with which Soap took his rejection, the grace, has him reeling.
He’s nothing like Ghost was expecting when Price had first mentioned a lone rancher out on the range. He doesn’t really know what he’d been anticipating, an alpha, sure, and he’d been right on that count. Honestly he thinks he’d been picturing a middle aged hardarse with as much money as sense; fuck all of either.
Soap is. Well, Soap is not that.
For a start, it bears repeating, he might actually be the single most beautiful man Ghost has ever seen in his life, for another he’s young, can’t be much over twenty five. He’s kinder too Ghost’s mind whispers gentle, funny-
Ghost kicks a rock by his feet to derail that particular line of thinking, Tablet, good girl as she is, immediately runs to fetch it. Ghost rewards her with a firm stroke between the ears before sending her on her way back towards the house.
The hayloft is cool when he makes it back, quiet but for the lowing of cattle in the distance, the hum of insects. Ghost peels off his gloves before anything else, brings up his wrist to inhale. It’s almost undetectable, faint as anything, but beneath the sweat and leather there’s just the faintest hint of omega.
Shit.
He’d let that get far too close, doesn’t know what he was thinking other than that he wasn’t, didn’t have any thoughts in his head except soapsoapsoap .
He rummages through his bag to pull out the leather roll hidden at the bottom. His supplies are still well stocked, for now, but next time he heads into town it would still be worth visiting Price to get more. He doesn’t know much about how Soap runs things here, but he can’t risk being caught without them while out with the herd.
When he’d first started making this mix it had been complicated, it had taken every ounce of his concentration to make sure he was getting it right, that everything was measured out just so and in just the right quantities to ensure that it would work how he needed it to. How it had to in order to do its job. He’s well practised now, though, takes no time at all to tap out the right measure of each herb into the oil, to mix it thoroughly enough for everything to incorporate.
The taste used to bother him, the strong bitter flavour of the herbs taking some getting used to, but now the only part he doesn’t like is how it washes away the burn of the bourbon lingering on his palate, the traces of liquor which will be the closest he ever gets to tasting Soap the way he wishes he could.
Fucking hell, alpha pheromones are some bullshit, if they have him this obsessed after knowing him for a grand total of about ten hours.
Ghost massages the tincture into his wrists, his neck, spends a long time rubbing it into his mating gland to ensure it’s properly absorbed.
By the time he’s stripped down and fallen back onto his straw mattress he’s ready to pass out and forget about the world for a few hours, but sleep evades him, lingers just out of his grasp as he tosses and turns and tries not to wonder if Soap is doing the same thing up at the house. Rolls over onto his belly and buries his face into the thin pillow in the vague hope of smothering himself, but all that he achieves is accidentally grinding his cock into the coarse fabric beneath him.
A grunt claws its way out of his throat at the unexpected stimulation and he can’t help the way his hips jerk down again, repeat the movement more deliberately, grinding just right to get his cock plumping up between his legs. He’s grateful the remedy he takes renders his slick scentless, because he’s been wet since Soap walked in on him bathing, and that certainly wasn’t helped by Soap speaking to him softly in the firelight over dinner.
He rolls back onto his back, accepts that he needs to deal with this now if he has any hope of getting to sleep. Slipping a hand down along his body, Ghost cups himself through his drawers, rubs firmly and mewls at how good it feels. He hasn’t touched himself in so long, hasn’t had the time, hasn’t wanted, but oh how he wants now.
He moves his hand, slides it beneath his waistband to hold himself properly, his hand is cold and it feels incredible wrapping around the heated flesh of his cock, stroking leisurely. There’s no way he’s going to last long, not like this, not with the way the fog of arousal is infecting his mind, the way his cunt is gushing slick into his underwear, wetting his thighs. He releases his cock long enough to slide his hand down and collect some of the wetness pooling there, drags it back up to coat his skin and ease the way for his hand.
Ghost pictures Soap as he strokes, imagines him lying in his own bed, up at the house. Pictures him pulling out his own cock, flushed red with arousal and sunburn, Ghost knows how thick it is, saw it first hand, knows it would stretch him open so well if he only took him up on his offer. The Soap in his mind whimpers his name as he takes himself in hand (his real one, not Ghost), and strips his cock hard and fast, knot swelling fat and heavy at its base.
Soap had nice balls, fat and heavy, like a proper alpha. Ghost imagines them slapping against his arse as Soap fucks him. He’d kiss him, Ghost thinks, seems like he’d be sweet even as he took Ghost apart piece by piece.
Ghost trails his other hand down, kicks his heels further apart so he can slide his hand down between his legs to toy with his cunt, hole soft and warm and welcoming when he presses two fingers in. He twists them just right, playing his own body like an instrument as he works himself. His cock jerks in his hand and he lets his mind wander back to Soap, think of him gasping and whining as he squeezes his knot, pumps rope after rope of come onto his chest, wasting it just because Ghost denied him his cunt.
Ghost presses a third finger to his hole, slides it in and starts pumping them in and out immediately, turns them and presses up and in, massaging his sweet spot as he rolls his thumb over the head of his cock. He comes imagining Soap’s hand, Soap’s cock, Soap’s come and knows it’s a mistake just as clearly as he knows he’ll do it again.
He wipes himself down with a spare rag, peels off his drawers since they’re soaked beyond help for now. The combination of slick and come on the cloth renders it pretty much ruined and he tosses it onto the pile of rubbish he’ll take out to dispose of on a fire in the morning. Sated and clean enough for now he lies back and settles in to wait for sleep to finally take him.
It doesn’t come and by the early hours of the morning, Ghost gives up. He dresses in his spare work clothes, grabs his hat and a lantern, and gets to work on the ranch.