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Sex, sweat, and pleasure. The lustful sound of skin on skin, wet and sliding. The scent of arousal and musk, bodies pressing their erotic heat against each other. A large, jiving inferno, taking over every possible sense.
Ghost squirms where he lays, body placid and open to the countless pleasures he's receiving. Though beneath the heavy mist of lust, frustration grew. The bodies he's moving against seem less and less receptive, the sweet scent of sex beginning to grow stale. A stark sense of wrongness forces its way into his skull. Something isn't right
Slowly, almost dreadfully, he squints his eyes open. Instead of being met with the beautiful sight of his desires, Ghost instead finds himself getting blinded by a sharp, white light. In an instance his body rightens itself, wet skin turns to uncomfortable, crinkling sheets. Moans and the clinking of belts done off into the incessant beeping of monitors.
Right. Medbay. That’s where he is, not some arousing fantastical sex room, but an ungodly bright, public, medical quarters. It takes all of the man’s efforts to repress a groan of irritation.
His body is mad at him, to say the least. Or more specifically, his cock, which if Ghost could look at now will surely be a ruddy, painful red. The mission that landed him here had been a shit show, a month of what the Brit could easily consider hell. And just to add the cherry on top, the use of both of his arms had been entirely stripped from him. His left had caught a bullet, ignored long enough to lead to a nasty infection. The doctors had been sure to set it up in the tightest, most inescapable cast known to man. His right was even more of a pain and hassle, it had been broken and was now being held off in a sling, entirely unusable.
Now Ghost had been practically rendered useless, unable to feed himself, hydrate himself, take his own meds, pleasure himself. Ghost hates that, hates putting his wellbeing into the hands of others. Chances are, he’d rather take a whole other month out on the field than deal with this shit for much longer.
Luckily, the soldier who’d been assigned to keep after him for the time being is one he knows well, one he’s always trusted. John MacTavish, his loud and rather boisterous sergeant. Ghost had grown to appreciate the lad’s company, on some days he even dared to look forward to it.
This was not one of those days.
Ghost is pent up. It was painfully inevitable, he was nearing nearly a month in a half of being unable to take a hand to himself, let alone indulge in a fuck. The mission had been held in far too close quarters for that, and now the removal of his upper body’s autonomy took away any promise of near sighted relief.
He has a pretty good feeling that this newly sported erection, obscenely obvious against his pathetically thin medbay gown and paper sheets, won’t be leaving him anytime soon.
His cot had the privilege of a privacy curtain, but that won’t matter much when MacTavish arrives to help with breakfast and morning medication. Shit. This is going to be humiliating.
Ghost shifts his hips once, a desperate attempt at making his dick less noticeable, only to wince when the harsh sheets brush against his leaking tip. Sighing, he shrinks his weight back into the cot, making peace with his mortifying future.
Practically on cue, the plastic blue curtain flutters and in steps Soap, dressed in a tight fitting black T and camos, holding a tray. He looks… good. Ghost stifles a sigh, that was sure to only worsen his problems.
“Mornin’ mate, sorry for being late, Gaz wouldn’t stop talkin’ my ear off.” If the Scott notices something, which Ghost is sure he would have, the observant fucker, he doesn't immediately say anything.
For just a moment, while Soap is turned to place some things on the nearby metal counter, Ghost allows himself to toy with the idea that maybe his issue isn’t so noticeable after all. That fantasy is shattered, however, the second Soap faces his way again. The man’s expression is one of pure smugness, mischief tugging at the corner of his infuriating grin, eyes creased with pity.
“Long night, aye?”
There's no question about what he's referring to. Grumbling, Ghost averts his gaze and resists the urge to squirm, “Sod off, MacTavish. Ignore it.”
“If ye insist, LT” Soap chuckles lightly to himself, he seems to be putting considerable effort into keeping his eyes focused away from his superior’s… situation. Ghost even swears he sees the beginnings of a blush reach the man’s face “Breakfast today seems tae be some kind of, ah, soup? Looks a tad greenish.”
“Hmph, sounds fuckin' thrilling.” Ghost shifts slightly, just allowing enough space for his sergeant room to tentatively sit at the edge of the far too small bed.
It was the feeding that he always found the most shameful, something about it made him flush, wanting to crawl into himself. It made him feel weak and helpless in ways he hadn't known in years. Soap is gentle though, he always had been; the man was almost sickeningly kind as he methodically made his way through each carefully thought out action. He always started by cupping Ghost’s chin, running a thumb softly across the larger man’s bottom lip. The action nearly felt intimate at times. A small spoonful would be guided to Simon's lips, one which he would then accept gingerly.
Today’s meal is- not surprisingly due to Soap’s description - fairly disgusting. However it doesn't feel like all too big of a deal when Ghost feels the Scott’s fingers brush against his throat as he swallows. Huh. That was new.
There’s some kind of tension in the air, something that the two had never really experienced with one another. It had always been easy jokes and smooth banter, never a second thought between words or actions, until now, that is. It makes sense though, considering the still standing prick not inches away from where Soap is sitting. The gentle touches to Ghost’s face sure as hell aren’t helping.
They slowly work their way through the soup, Soap’s eyes never seeming to leave the man before him, there was something intense and observing in his expression. Some would even call it fond. Ghost can’t find it in him to meet his gaze, his blond lashes fluttering shut at every miniscule touch.
Fuck, he hopes he isn’t blushing. He’d always been horribly obvious, deep red flushed across his cheeks and ears, down into his chest. It’s something that he’d always found embarrassing, he hates to be read easily.
Soap gently pulls the last spoonful from Ghost’s mouth, smirking as a small strand of spit follows. He swipes a thumb against the Brit’s shining lips and chin once the line breaks, seemingly oblivious to the way his lieutenant grew flustered, looking away with embarrassment. Ghost swears he felt his cock twitch beneath the blankets.
It’s then that his sergeant takes the spoon to his own lips, a sinful look passing over his face as he sucks off any remaining spit with a sensual pop. He had done the motions quickly and casually, as though they meant nothing. As though they don’t force Ghost to suppress a whimper, his brain practically short circuiting as another painful throb occurs between his legs.
God. Why was this happening, why was he so turned on, why did every movement Soap made feel so damned seductive. He’s just in his head, for sure, that was all, it just-
“Ah could always lend ye a hand, if ye wanted.” The honey coated words roll languidly from the smaller man’s lips, forcing Ghost away from the haze of his brain.
He’s caught off guard, and the only response he can manage is some jumble of stuttered, confused sounds.
Soap chuckles a bit at that, gesturing to the obvious tent at Ghost’s lap. The movement has the lieutenant's eyes following, only for him to become mortified by the sight that he's met with. He’s… fuck- he’s leaking. Beads of pre have pushed their way past the sheer paper sheets, obscene and shining in the white lights. It's even caused the material around his tip to dampen and become practically transparent. The red flush of his cock head is now more apparent than ever. Humiliation burns hot through Ghost’s face, down through his chest - mouth agape as he's suddenly rendered speechless.
“It’d be no issue, really. Hate to watch a poor bloke unable to get off, ye must be losing yer mind. Trust me, ‘ts all for tactical reasons."
Now it's Ghost’s turn to let out a disbelieving laugh, his mind desperately trying to catch up to the soldier’s words. “Tactical, huh?”
“Aye, better tae help me focus on takin’ care of ya. Less… distractions.”
Soap turns away, clearly giving his lieutenant time to think over the ridiculous offer laid before him. He shuffles some things around on a nearby metal tray, from what Ghost can see he’s likely preparing the morning pain meds. He can't help but wish for a double dose, maybe triple, anything to knock him out of this skewed reality.
When Soap returns he holds a small plastic cup of water along with the handful of pills. Ghost had always tried to insist on taking them dry, though it had been futile compared to the other man's stubborn, irritating, almost desperate need to take care of him. To keep him comfortable in every pointless way.
It was likely that need, Ghost thinks, that placed them into their current situation.
“I wouldn’t ever ask that of you, Johnny.” He hates the words, hates their falsity. Ghost doesn't think he’s ever wanted anything more. His aching, hot need growing more and more torturous to ignore as the tense seconds tick by.
Soap doesn’t respond at first, nothing more than a soft hum as he stands above his patient. Another hand makes its way to Ghost’s chin, his mouth slowly parting to take the pills. To take anything MacTavish could ever give him. Soap is gentle as he guides the cup of water to eager lips and, as Ghost swallows, he slowly begins to rub his hand across the man's throat. Thumb circling his adams apple, pointer finger teasing that soft connection of jaw. “What if I wanted to, Simon?”
The use of his name breaks down even more of Ghost’s crumbling barriers. His eyes squeeze shut and a helpless groan punches its way out of him.
“Do you?” His voice is wrecked, unmistakable longing for pleasure sinuously curling its way through each word. Another hand slinks its way to Ghost’s knee, rubbing more of those horrible, perfect little circles into his skin.
“I think ya know the answer tae that. Why don’t ye tell me?”
“Please… Johnny, god…” To hell with dignity, to hell with his status. Ghost’s thrown fuck all to the wind, he’s kissed his goodbyes to those pearly gates and dug his grave. Despite it all he can’t bring himself to care, suddenly it seems as though Soap is the only thing he’ll ever need. The only things he’s ever needed.
“Couldnae hear ye, love, tell me now. What is it ya need?” He’s teasing. Ghost knows he’s teasing, toying with his head. He should be beyond pissed, but something about the words send hot heat coiling down his spine.
His next words come out on a broken moan, “Please, please help me. I can’t hold off any more, I’ll do anything. Just give it to me Johnny, please.” Ghost feels like he’s burning up, Soap has become his god and the sight of him is enough to disintegrate even the strongest of mortals.
Soap sighs sweetly, as though considering the begging mess before him, before allowing a blinding smile to overtake his lips. “There ye are, that’s just what I was waitin’ to hear, love.” The pet name pulls a shiver from Ghost, but he barely has a moment to react before Soap is pulling the sheets away from his prick, bobbing red and angry as it hits the cool, stark air of medical.
The thin blue gown Ghost had been placed in when he first arrived is… useless, to say the least. It was uncomfortably short and flimsy to begin with, and his dick had clearly made easy work of pushing past it in the night. Now the pathetic illusion of privacy pools cold and helpless on Ghost’s stomach.
“Owch, Christ, L.T. When's the last time you got this poor guy off?”
Ghost closes his eyes once again and turns his face as well as he can into the scratchy pillows, embarrassment pricking at his skin. “Been a minute. Haven’t been able to since before the mission started…” Soap can’t seem to help the startled laugh that barks out of him,
“Ye’ve got more patience than me, mate. Can’t even imagine.”
“Then why don’t you hurry the hell up and help me then.” Desperation is too meek of a word to describe all of the crazed, pulling sensations pulsing through Ghost’s body, mind, and cock. He has to physically force himself to stop any thoughts of MacTavish… touching himself late at night after a opp, fucking a lass - or lad? - in some run down bar toilet… shit, he’s going to lose his mind.
None of the waiting, the pining, the fruitless wet dreams, could have prepared Ghost for the feeling of Soap’s warm, calloused hand finally, finally, wrapping itself around his length. Somewhere above him he swears he can hear Soap whisper the words ‘lucky bastard’ underneath his breath. Ghost can’t help the way his body goes taunt, his back arching against the cot. He surely can’t stop the breathy groan and slew of curses that fall from his lips. Despite his stealth on the field, Ghost had never been all too good at keeping quiet in bed. Soap’s hand feels like a dream, and it's yet to even start moving. Ghost won’t be shocked if he shot off in a matter of minutes.
“This alright, can I keep goin’?” Soap's accent’s grown thicker, every syllable has a particular tilt to it that Ghost can’t fully recognize. Soap accentuates his words with a rub of his thumb to the ridge of Ghost’s tip. The sensation shoots sparks across his lower back, his begging response a lost gargle of need. Soap smirks “I’ll take how much yer drooling for it as a sign fer now.”
Ghosts unsure if Soap’s talking about his dick or his mouth, either would be accurate, he’s sure.
At last the man begins to drag his hand up and down Ghost’s length, callous catching now and then on a large vein towards the base. Every small movement, every look, pulls soft noises from the back of Ghost’s throat. He’d feel pity for the poor nurses and other patients if he wasn’t already so drunk out of his mind. Drunk on Soap’s hand on his prick, his eyes, the way his tongue darted out across his bottom lip. It ‘s some insane heaven, without a doubt.
The slides still dry, however, despite how much Ghost had been leaking beforehand. Ever the problem solver, Soap relieves Ghost’s prick of his hand and pushes it over to his mouth. Ghost moans over the intrusion, accepting the fingers without a second thought as he roves his tongue across the digits, defiling them and his own chin with spit.
A small, twisted part of him dares to wonder how it could feel to have Soap’s cock in his mouth instead.
Ghost’s stomach rolls as he watches Soap slowly pull his fingers away, strands of spit clinging behind, almost an exact mirror of the spoon from earlier. The one Soap had fucking tasted.
The now silky, wet glide returns to his prick. Soap smears his fingers across Ghost’s tip, squeezing at it and pressing against the slit, causing the man beneath him to gasp in surprise, his hips bucking up into the pleasure. The ever considerate man he is, Soap brings his freehand forward to rest against his lieutenant's waist, steadying him.
“Easy now, bonnie lad, cannae have ye injuring yerself now, can we?”
Ghost gives fuck all if he injures himself again, though he can’t say he’s not grateful for the new point of contact, that gentle hand ghosting it’s way up and down his side.
Every slide of Soap’s first begins to set Ghost aflame. There’s electrical wires sparking throughout his nerves, a sharp tingling fire which coaxes through from his cock down to his calves, up through his stomach, across his arms, through the neck and all the little soft, vulnerable joints of his soul, into the mush which was once a brain.
A brain which clearly has lost its sense, considering how he makes the utterly idiotic decision to open his eyes again. And, even worse, look at Soap.
And oh god, if that sight isn’t nearly enough to push him straight over the edge. The edge he’s been riding on for weeks on end. Soap’s long lashes flutter low over his eyes, that piercing deep blue stare roving between Ghost’s fucked out face and his needy, pulsing prick. His mouth is glistening, he’s clearly been biting at those beautiful lips of his, likely doing his best to hold his tongue. His scarred, rough hands are just coated with Ghost’s pre, practically leaking like a faucet. It almost looks like Soap is the one getting the best hand job of his life.
And Ghost, the whore he refuses to admit he is, can’t help but picture that beautiful deity of a face in other scenarios. Stretching those pink, flushed lips across his prick, scrunching his eyes in ecstasy as he bottoms out into Ghost’s hole, moving those hell breaking hands across every little plane of Ghost’s body.
Something low and cruel begins to boil in his gut, so much heavier and deeper than the electricity which still rides across his skin. The moans and breaths slipping from Ghost’s mouth become quicker, nearing on whines, as a tightness curls its way around his core.
“That’s it, there ya go. Ye feeling good Simon?”
Words are a joke to Ghost by this point, all he can do is nod frantically and choke on another desperate sound as pleasure so strong it borders on pain flowers throughout his body. He wants to reach out, to grab, to feel, to kiss. The little noises falling from his lips have become frighteningly close to sounds like Johnny, and please, and fuck, I need you.
“Getting close?” Johnny leans forward, his breathing seems labored as well, those god forsaken eyes never leaving his subject for a second. His oh so beautiful subject. “Can you cum now? Cum for me, love, you can do it.”
The hand on Ghost’s waist tightens, the one on his cock quickens. And it’s that demand, a request made to sound as though it would be a gift to Johnny, Ghost’s pleasure, not to mention the pet name, that breaks Ghost entirely.
A shattered moan pierces the air, Ghost’s body arches towards his master, his Johnny. His gut boils over, and sharp stabs of pleasure coil through his bones, unforgiving against his stomach. The heat between his legs throbs with every rope of release. It’s been ages, fucking ages, his prick has never had so much to offer. It feels as though the orgasm just keeps going.
Soap’s hands soothe him through it all, the one on his cock expertly catching any amount of seed Ghost provides. Every moment Ghost thinks it may end, that glorious hand rubs itself against his tip once again, adding levels upon levels to his release.
Ghost’s eyes don't leave MacTavish for a second. The pleasure slowly, agonizingly so, begins to fade into a distant drumming through his cock and stomach.
Soon enough Ghost begins to squirm away from Soap’s overstimulating touch. The man stays just a moment longer than expected, seeming to find some kind of joy in watching the painful lust contort Ghost’s body.
At last it’s over. Soap pulls himself away, probably in search of something to clean his ruined knuckles and palm with. It lude, the way the cum paints his skin. with. Ghost shuts his eyes and practically melts into the cot beneath him. He feels good, unworldly so. His body is still lagging behind, and he can feel the remnants of release and bliss aching across his limbs.
His cock is slowly beginning to come to a rest, twitching shallowly with slight overstimulation as it brushes across his thigh. Sweat coats Ghost's body, suctioning him to the frail sheets below, but he can’t seem to feel a need for a shower. Doing so would wash away all of the evidence, all of the signs that Soap had been there. Had touched him.
A throat clears overhead, and Simon has to force his eyes open. Near the curtain stands a frankly awkward, nervous MacTavish. “Ah.. suppose ah should head back to duties… Price will be, uhm, expecting me n’ all.”
Ghost nods weakly waves a hand. “Go, Johnny. Thank you, for your…” he shuffles a bit, clearing his throat, “help..”
John makes quick work of rearranging Ghost’s gown and sheets before starting his way out, he only takes one second to pause and look back at his superior.
“Of course, mate. If ye ever need it again, don be afraid tae ask. Is’ no issue..”
Unable to stop a quiet laugh, Ghost shakes his head. “Still just tactical, yeah?”
Smiling, Soap turns and walks out from the curtain. “Ye know it, L.T.”
Ghost hadn’t missed the bulge that stood against Soap’s camos, nor had he missed the small drying specks of forgotten cum which had settled into his clothes. He’d simply made the small, tactical decision to ignore it, and hope Price would be less observant.
He knew he would never accept Soap’s offer again. It would lead to issues, fraternizing always turned up ugly, no matter how safe anyone thought they were. But for now, he could play with the thought of it, allow it to ease him back down in more focused, sweeter dreams. Dreams of the loll of a Scottish tongue and a very specific pair of brilliant, blue eyes.
- The End?