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Ghost always showers with Soap after a mission. It’s just how things go, Soap has never questioned it, and Ghost sees that as an understanding, an invitation with a green checkmark.
They shower, sometimes they get handsy and touchy, and it usually ends in both of them cleaning themselves of cum and spit and even further filth. But it never goes beyond touching, because Ghost never tries, and Soap seems to respect that, doesn’t push it despite his very obvious enthusiasm and want for more.
Soap touches Ghost like he’s what remains of a fire. Hesitant but curious, endlessly wanting, fingers sifting through ash and dying flames. He’s burned with every touch, scarred and skin torn, yet he still touches, still reaches for Ghost. Soap touches Ghost like he’s biblical, like something holy and so much bigger than himself in a metaphorical sense, like he’s worthy of something more than what Soap can offer.
There’s nothing more than what Soap can offer though, not to Ghost. He doesn’t have to offer anything. Ghost just wants him.
Ghost doesn’t know how to act when he’s touched like that, when he’s touched like he matters, like he’s valued and seen for something precious and fragile, not entirely put together. He doesn’t know how to behave when Soap looks at him like he’s the sun and the clouds, like Ghost’s a prayer Soap whispered late one night come to life.
So, naturally, Ghost tries to touch him back the same way. He touches Soap, and he tries to make what he feels obvious, somehow transfer his feelings and thoughts from his mind to his fingertips, let it sink into Soap’s skin, because Ghost is no good with words and touching is only ever so simple.
Ghost tries to touch Soap like he’s a treasure long been searched for, like he’s air and Ghost has known nothing but water-brimmed lungs his whole life. He tries to touch him the way he sees him, like peaking-behind-blinds sunlight and stars that fade when you look at them from a certain angle, like a whisper hung from your lips.
He touches Soap like he’s trying to get under his skin, get into his bloodstream, know his cells, his DNA, know every little bone and joint and piece of flesh wrapped tightly around him - and Soap lets him, smile soft, like a budding flower that promises to grow in the sun.
He presses bruises the shape of his fingertips into Soap’s hips, and he leaves bites in places nobody will see them, carves himself into Soap because he needs to stake his claim, make it known despite Soap and himself being the only ones alive who know that those marks are there.
They’ve never gone further though, and Ghost isn’t upset about that, but there’s always an itch when he looks at Soap, one he can’t find, can’t peel his skin back and reach it. It’s beyond flesh, beyond bone and blood, and the itch just gets worse everyday. He wants to.. well, if he’s to be perfectly honest, he wants to fuck Soap.
He wants to grab his waist and feel him around his cock, make him keen and whine, tease him until Soap’s begging for more, to be fucked like he wants, make him desperate and needy. God, how Soap can get needy.
He’ll whine and beg, breathy and almost like a sob, broken, and so pretty. Ghost always chuckles at him when he begs like that, when he sounds so desperate and like his life depends on being touched.
Soap will almost get to the point of crying sometimes, Ghost can see the way his eyes get red around the edges, how his expression changes, like he’s genuinely distraught from the lack of attention. Ghost thinks it’s the most attractive thing in the universe, he wants to milk him of that expression, keep it locked away because it’s precious and makes him want to rip Soap to pieces.
So, naturally, Ghost gives in to his wants.
The shower will do, he decides one day. Soap smiles at him when they return to base, and when they’ve both gone through the usual routine that is coming back from a mission, they go straight for the shower. It’s a private one, thankfully, so Soap strips and Ghost is shortly behind him.
Routines are easy, especially when you fall into them like soldiers, when you’re trained by routines and they become a part of your everyday life without you really wanting them to. Breaking said routine is probably a little disorienting for Soap, but Ghost’ll make him feel better, he tells himself.
Water runs hot, steam fogs the mirrors, there’s the patter of water hitting the tile from the spray, and then there’s Soap.
Bare and bruised, scars littered around his body like details of a canvas, the shape of Ghost’s teeth imprinted on his left shoulder, still fresh, just bruising over. Ghost stares, admires the view because he can, because he’s allowed. There’s a scar that runs from Soap’s waist to the middle of his ribs, and Ghost has to wonder how he got it, what the story behind it is.
Soap has a few scars that Ghost wonders about. One on his leg that goes from his knee to his middle-thigh, one that runs softly over his right eyebrow, hardly there, but if you’re close enough you’d see the faint lining of scarred skin. He’s got one that’s healed over badly, skin raised and bumpy when Ghost touches it briefly, because Soap doesn’t often let him touch his scars.
He wants to run his fingers along them, learn the pattern of it, know Soap’s scars like Ghost knows his own, like they’re something he’ll never forget, engraved into his flesh, painted atop Ghost’s own layer of art.
“You plannin’ to stare all day, Lt?” Soap calls out to him, a dumb smirk spread on his lips. Ghost wants to kiss the air from his lungs.
He shrugs, “Maybe.”
Soap shakes his head, huffs a chuckle, "Ach, ya' bampot. Hurry up ‘fore I turn the water off!”
Ghost laughs, shaking his head. He has no fucking idea what Soap just said, but he sort of loves that aspect of Soap - not always understanding what he says, cause it’s like a game, Ghost gets to try and decode what he means and he gets to hear Soap laugh like Ghost is the funniest man in the world despite his struggles.
But, he listens. He sits down and works off his boots, undoing the laces and the clasps, pushing them off his feet, tucking his socks into them so he can throw them into the wash later on. The floor is cold beneath his feet, makes him shiver a little at the discomfort, shoulders rolling, but he works off his vest next, setting it down, making sure nothing is damaged in the process.
He can feel Soap’s eyes on him, sharp and burning, like a magnifying glass held beneath a sun-ray. Ghost likes that feeling, likes knowing Soap is looking at him so closely, taking him in, memorizing him, maybe. His own eyes flick up, catch Soap’s gaze, and for a moment they just look at each other. It feels ridiculous, but it feels weighed too, like there’s something heavier behind both of their eyes, something they’re both hiding.
It doesn’t really matter right now though, so Ghost just looks back down and works on his clothing again. His gloves slip off easily, set down and forgotten.
His shirt goes next, pulled over his head and tossed somewhere insignificant. Than his pants. Zipper, button, belt - pull, slide, drop, fold. A simple routine, one Ghost has carved into his mind quite easily. Briefs are simple, but he can still feel Soap looking at him, scanning, analyzing. It feels like fire on his skin, like there's flames dragging up his arms, digging into him.
Ghost moves over to Soap just after a moment, watches the way his expression changes, hungry to curious with a tinge of want, teeth peaking out when he grins. Ghost likes Soap’s smile, it’s one of his favorite things about the other. He’s never been big on smiling, he knows it’s a natural thing, something that just happens, but still, smiling has never been his thing. Smiling to Ghost was sort of like speaking - it’s optional, something you can do but don’t have to do.
But Soap, oh, he’s a sucker for that smile of his. Warm, full of light and something loving, something kind. Ghost likes the way it makes Soap’s face shift, the way his cheeks take shape, how his nose scrunches, the faint dimples that dent his cheeks.
Soap claims to like Ghost’s smile as well.
He thinks about that when he sleeps some nights, how Soap claims to like a lot about Ghost despite there not being much to like.
His hands meet Soap’s waist, palms running along water-slicked skin, up and down, feeling the heat that radiates off him, the blood that cycles through him beneath the layers of flesh.
Soap leans his head back, hair wet and dripping when it bumps against Ghost’s chest. Ghost looks at Soap, and Soap looks at him, feels the others hand move to touch at Ghost’s body behind him. Water drips from the tips of Soap’s fingers, Ghost feels it run down his leg.
When it comes to touch, Soap’s always been the more affectionate one. He seeks Ghost out, touches him like it’s easy, like it’s something he does without thinking about it, a mindless action. But when Ghost touches Soap, it’s always calculated, always thought about beforehand, because touching Soap is terrifying, it’s difficult.
It’s difficult because Ghost has never touched like this before, he’s never felt this sort of thing before; that burning in his chest when he thinks of Soap, that ache around his heart, the fluttering of his stomach. Ghost’s never.. ‘fancied’ someone before, and the feeling makes his throat tight.
He’s bound to fuck it up, bound to ruin this in one way or another - it’s what he does. He ruins, he destroys, the paths he walks are lit aflame behind every step, it’s simply who he is.
But he’ll try to be gentle with Soap, with this, like the planets spinning around the sun. Gentle with their pull, kind with their rotations, soft, quiet with their existences.
Soap turns, presses his body against Ghost’s, mouth immediately finding the skin of Ghost’s throat, hand raising to lift the fabric beneath his mask, lips drifting along the skin that becomes exposed, earning Soap a quiet, pleased sound.
“Excited?” Ghost asks, as if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing, like he wasn’t trying to tempt Soap. He teases, and Soap pretends to hate it despite reveling in it every time, cause Ghost can see the red blooming on his cheeks and traveling down his neck to his chest.
There’s a little smirk that curls on Soap’s mouth, Ghost feels it form, then a soft laugh, the kind of laugh that Ghost knows Soap lets out when something is only somewhat amusing, not worthy of a full-blown laugh. “Quite, sir.” He responds, nipping at Ghost’s neck softly again.
Sir. That’s a title that’s thrown between them a lot, though when Ghost calls Soap ‘sir’, it’s usually in a joking tone. Soap says it in moments like this often, like it’s a name he thinks Ghost deserves, one he likes to call him, apparently.
Ghost isn’t complaining, not at all. He likes it, likes it quite a bit, actually.
His hands tighten on Soap’s waist, thumbs pressing in near his hipbones, hard enough to make Soap let out a gasp at the treatment, as if it’s something new. Sensitive, that’s how Ghost would describe Soap in a way. He’s responsive, gives Ghost more than he asks for when it comes to reactions.
Moans, whines, begging, Soap does it all, and Ghost doesn’t even have to ask, doesn’t have to say a word - Soap will do it himself, because he’s desperate and needy, pathetically so.
Teeth pinch at the skin of Ghost’s throat, just near his adams-apple, teased between teeth. Pain flares up Ghost’s spine, red hot and tingling, makes him let out a gasp of his own, though softer, harder to hear.
Despite popular belief, Ghost can show emotion, can show humanly reactions - it’s just that Soap is usually the cause of them all, and really only Soap gets to see this sort of side of Ghost, because he’s earned it, in a way.
Ghost’s thumbs rub hard circles into Soap’s skin, hands sliding to Soap’s backside to grope his ass, taking handfuls of it and squeezing, pushing Soap’s body firmer against Ghost’s own. He can feel the hardness of Soap’s dick against his own, heated and interested.
Soap’s hands pull further at the fabric, kissing further up Ghost’s throat, licking at the leftover sweat that’s housed itself there on Ghost’s skin, tongue dragging along skin until there’s a growl coming from Ghost’s lips.
“Careful, Johnny.” Ghost warns, voice low, almost a whisper, rough and sounding dry. He gives a warning because he wants to see Soap’s reaction, wants to see how he takes it, how he’ll play his cards.
“Why?” Soap responds, genuine curiosity in his voice, though playful, “Afraid you might lose control, Simon?” The name rolls off his tongue, teeth pinching at the skin of Ghost’s neck again, licking over the red patch that grows irritated in result.
Usually, at this point, Ghost would tease.
He would stroke Soap off until he came, maybe once or twice, make him beg for it, hear the way his voice changes in pitch, like it hurts to feel so much pleasure at once. Ghost would tease and tease, prolong the inevitable of having Soap cum with a breathy whimper of Ghost’s name and a curse following.
He’d do absolutely anything but give Soap exactly what he wants, or he’d make it slow, give it to him in a way he didn’t want it. Ghost would drag it out, make it almost like a punishment, maybe.
But he doesn’t have that sort of patience today, not when he’s got handfuls of Soap’s ass in his palms, when his cock twitches at the way Soap says his name. Ghost isn’t going to be patient and tease when Soap looks at him with fire behind his eyes, heat behind his touches.
No, Ghost won’t be patient, he’ll allow that hunger of his to roam, to let itself free and finally devour, because a predator can only be hungry for so long before it pounces, before it hunts like it was meant to.
Ghost moves his hands, puts them on Soap’s waist and spins him, pushes him so his chest is pressed to the showers wall. He hears a soft ‘oof’ in response to the movement, but that’s about the only form of complaint he gets.
There’s no proper lube in the showers, mostly because Ghost never expected them to go this far in a place like this, he expected this to happen in one of their bunks, maybe a car, a dark alleyway amidst a mission - but, planning comes a long way. He gives Soap a hard look, pushing him a little harder against the wall.
"Stay." He orders, and Soap nods, watches Ghost as he backs up and goes back to his clothes. Into the pocket of his pants, a little packet of lube that took a lot of work to obtain is pulled out, then he's turning and going back to Soap, whose still against the wall, hips stuck out. It's a hell of a sight.
A shit-eating grin is spread on Soap’s face when Ghost gets back to him, pressed nice and close again, like he knew this would happen, like he planned this, and knowing Soap, he probably did, the bastard. Ghost shakes his head, takes two fingers and presses them against Soap’s lips.
He gets the hint pretty quickly, letting Ghost’s fingers pass his lips and go into his mouth, tongue lapping at them, going between them, around them, coating Ghost’s fingers in spit. He doesn't need the spit, they have lube, because Ghost is kind enough to think ahead of time and make his life a little more difficult and awkward to obtain it. But seeing Soap with two fingers in his mouth is just for his own enjoyment.
“Go ahead, Sergeant,” Ghost whispers, soft and airy in Soap’s ear, voice a little muffled by his mask, “Show me how good you are with your tongue.”
Ghost wants to know how good he is with his mouth for scientific reasons, he swears.
He whines around Ghost’s fingers, licking between them one more time before Ghost tugs them from his mouth, chuckling at the noise Soap makes, displeased but wanting, curious.
Ghost has done this before - not with another person, just with himself, but that still counts, doesn’t it? So he knows the ropes of things. He rips the packet open with his teeth, adds some slick to his spit-covered fingers, rubbing them together. The feeling is tacky, a little unpleasant, but Ghost sort of likes it. Then it's one hand taking ahold of Soap’s ass and spreading it a little, pressing his slicked index finger against Soap’s hole and softly pushing it in.
Little resistance is what Ghost is met with, his finger goes in easily, almost like Soap had done this recently, which doesn’t.. make a lot of sense because Soap wouldn’t have any time to do a thing like this in the last few hours, but, still. It’s interesting to see Soap’s body take the intrusion with ease. Honestly, Ghost wouldn't put the idea of Soap fingering himself during a mission past him. It sounds like some dumb shit he would pull.
“Ah—“ Soap groans, arm raising to hold himself against the wall, hiding his face in the crease of it, “Fuck..” he curses under his breath, swallowing down a whimper when Ghost pushes deeper and curls his finger, brushing against his prostate.
Ghost likes that noise, that hidden whimper that Soap lets out when he does something he particularly likes, something that makes him flinch with pleasure. He keeps the motion going, in, out, curl his finger and tease at that little bunch of nerves that make Soap sound like he’s in pain.
Maybe he will tease, maybe just a bit, cause Soap moves his hips back like he’s trying to get more, impatient and needy.
Ghost likes when Soap’s eager, so he gives him another finger, middle joining his index. He doesn’t know if Soap was ready for it or not, but the sound Soap makes is enough to ease his worry, because it’s loud and echoes off the walls, high in his throat and strained.
His fingers stretch Soap’s hole nicely, he thinks, looking down at where they’re connected and eyeing the stretch around his fingers, the way the tightness slowly eases away. The sight is satisfying, makes Ghost’s stomach burn, makes his gut twist that knot of arousal tighter.
“You take this easy,” Ghost comments, voice smooth but mocking, almost condescending, “Makes me wonder if you’ve done this before,” he presses his fingers deeper, “If you’ve thought about me inside you.” Then a curl, two fingertips brush at Soap’s prostate.
Soap nods, frantic, desperate already, “Yes, yes,” he groans, almost pleas, “Too many times, Lt..” he confesses, and it feels holy, like a servant and witness of God listening to the confessions of his greatest sinner, “Every night. Fuck—“
Every night. That’s almost a compliment.
Ghost tries to get his fingers deeper, but he settles on letting his ring finger join the other two despite its lack of slick. Soap can handle it, and if he can’t, Ghost will stop. But it seems he’s fine, because Soap’s breath hitches and he pushes his hips back, clawing at the wall in front of him aimlessly.
“Every night, Johnny?” Ghost repeats, waits for Soap to nod in response, eyes flicking down to where his fingers continue to stretch his hole, “Desperate slut, aren’t you?”
There’s a routine now to this - scissor his fingers, drag them in and out, tease Soap’s prostate, push them deep then pull them almost all the way out. Ghost repeats it, listens to the breaking of Soap’s breathing, the pants he lets out like a dog, like he’s not getting enough air to his lungs.
“Ghost,” the other man whines, shaky but soft, just around a release of breath, “Please.”
Ghost knows exactly what he's asking for, he isn't dumb. But he's more interested in what Soap just confessed a few moments ago, he's more interested in the fact that Soap fucks himself on his own fingers every night, apparently, thinking about Ghost, thinking about this exact moment, most likely. He's focused on the way Soap likely moans his name, stretches himself out nice and loose, aching for anything but his own fingers to fuck himself on, wishing it was Ghost's cock instead.
"Do you think about me, Soap?" Ghost asks, completely ignoring Soap's plea, voice right in Soap's ear, surrounding him, drowning him in Ghost's presence, "When you get yourself off, do you think about me, about us?"
Soap nods, just as frantic as before, mouth hung open. Ghost wants to kiss him, wants to grab his jaw and hold it tight, feel Soap’s jaw tense beneath the pressure. But this is good too, he can do that at any time, but this, this is something special.
”Like a good boy.” Ghost praises, spreading his fingers apart, looking at the way Soap’s hole stretches. Ghost is fascinated by this, by the way Soap’s body accommodates his fingers, how it’ll do the same when it comes to Ghost’s cock as well when the time comes.
There’s a second of silence, it feels heavy, weighted on their chests until Soap lets out a breath, shaky and broken, a short-lived gasp dropping from his lips before he’s pushing his hips back again, grinding himself on Ghost’s fingers, letting out soft moans as Ghost watches, sometimes curving his fingers to press against his prostate. It's like a show, one Ghost plans to enjoy, eyes following Soap's every movement, every shift of his hips and push of his body, every desperate attempt to pleasure himself, feel more of what Ghost has to offer.
It’s satisfying watching Soap fuck himself on Ghost’s fingers like he’s too desperate to do anything else, too lost in the fog of his head that’s beyond needy.
“Simon,” he gasps, and that makes Ghost pay a little more attention to what Soap may say, looking at him, meeting his gaze, “Please?”
Ghost pretends to think about it for a moment, just to watch the expression of desperation spread on Soap’s face, to see his eyes grow wide like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, like he’s offended Ghost would even have to consider giving Soap what he wants.
But, he did ask nicely, so Ghost nods, watches Soap relax a little, but not before he pushes his fingers deeper one more time, making Soap flinch and gasp. Ghost chuckles, putting his other hand on Soap’s waist and rubbing at the skin there with his thumb, sliding his slicked fingers in and out of Soap’s hole a few more times before pulling them out.
Soap watches him the whole time, eyes flicking from Ghost’s own eyes then down his body, taking in the sight of him despite it being a sight Soap has seen countless times. Ghost doesn't mind, he likes the feeling of Soap looking at him, likes the heat that drags along his skin as Soap’s eyes move, as they carve themselves into Ghost’s frame.
With a lift of his mask, Ghost reveals just enough of his lower face to let a drop of spit fall onto his own cock, using the hand he’d just used to finger Soap to spread his spit and leftover lube along his cock. It’s an inefficient form of lube, but Soap isn’t complaining, so neither will Ghost.
“Fuckin’ hell, you take forever,” Soap groans, straightening himself out on unsteady legs and pushing himself against Ghost’s body, hand reaching around to stroke his cock, “Have to do everything myself, don’t I?” He then laughs, lining Ghost’s cock up with his hole and waiting.
Ghost growls, wraps a hand around Soap’s throat and pushes him further against Ghost’s own body, slowly pushing his cock inside. The stretch goes slow, nothing like his fingers, Ghost feels every bit of it, every little way Soap’s body attempts to adjust to the new intrusion, how it tries to learn the girth of his cock, stretch around it.
"Don't push your luck, MacTavish." He warns the other, trying his hardest not to smile at the whine Soap lets out, high and so unlike Soap's usual voice, yet so much like himself. Nobody else gets to see Soap like this, only Ghost does, and that alone is something that makes Ghost want to tear him to pieces, consume him for all that he is just to memorize his flavor. Ghost wants Soap all to himself, because nobody else should be allowed to touch him like this, to hear or see him in a state like this unless it's Ghost. Hell, not even Ghost really deserves it - but he's got it, and he'll die before letting it go.
The tightness of Soap's body feels more intense like this, almost like Ghost didn't stretch him at all, like he'd just gone in without any sort of preparation. It makes Ghost hiss when he gets to the hilt, when their flesh meets, Soap's body completely surrounding his cock, tight and hot and gripping. His hand around Soap's throat tightens as well, and Soap reaches up to wrap his hand around Ghost's wrist, giving a soft nod, letting Ghost know that he's still okay.
Soft little moments of communication like that are important to Ghost, and he thinks they’re important to Soap as well, at least a little bit.
That nod is all he needs to grip Soap’s throat tight and move his hips experimentally, smiling at the way Soap flinches, the sound he lets out, strained and high in his throat.
Ghost’s a little hesitant to move the way he wants to, but Soap squeezes his wrist, wordlessly begs him to pick up the pace a little, so he listens, because he likes the way Soap sounds, and truthfully, he’s only human, and it feels good.
So a shift of his footing lets Ghost go a little harder, and Soap throw his head back, letting out a strained whine as Ghost’s cock brushes against his prostate with every hard, deep thrust.
Soap is tight and the heat is overwhelming, making Ghost’s head spin with every movement of his hips, every breath feels heavy, like he’s overworking himself, and he’s absolutely loving every moment of this.
The smell of leftover sweat and grime, the scent of Soap’s skin, the sound of his voice trapped in his throat, the pulse beneath Ghost’s palm when he squeezes Soap’s throat - it’s addicting, this feeling, the chase of heat and pleasure, the blinding warmth. It’s all far too good, much more than Ghost was ready for, but he’s keeping himself composed, at least somewhat, he hopes.
Soap, on the other hand, is completely falling apart. Whines and moans, broken whimpers that sound like Ghost’s name, strained sounds that make Ghost think he’s hurting him. Hurting him is fine though, Ghost knows this, they both know that pain is some unspoken thing, a pleasure they both share.
There’s the lewd sound of skin meeting skin in harsh thrusts that fills the bathroom, water hitting the tiles of the shower, the faint, distant noise of an active military base - but nothing other than this exists to Ghost right now.
All there is in the world is this; the sound of Soap’s voice and the broken noises he makes, the racing of his heart beneath Ghost’s grasp, the redness of his cock where it bounces against his stomach, untouched and leaking a steady amount of precum from the slit.
There’s only this moment to Ghost, he’s so far in his head, too deep in that fog that Soap’s lost in as well, the kind that makes him not even care when Soap reaches and tugs the mask completely off Ghost’s head. He doesn’t care when Soap takes ahold of his hair and grips it tight, nails in his scalp, pushing Ghost’s head to the place where Soap’s shoulder and neck begin to meet.
Immediately, Ghost’s tongue peaks past his lips, licking at the sweat that’s formed, that hasn’t been washed away by the showers water. It tastes like salt and musk and something distinctly Johnny, and Ghost lets out a growl at that, sinking his teeth into where he’d licked.
Soap cries out, and Ghost hadn’t even noticed the way he was grinding himself back on every thrust until now, that he was meeting every movement because he’s just that desperate, that pathetic. God, he’s driving Ghost insane by just breathing a certain way - it makes Ghost feel crazy, like he’s lost his mind.
But it’s a good feeling, one Ghost doesn’t want to go away. Being crazy about someone is lovely, he’s discovered. Feeling this way for someone like Soap is addicting, laced in his veins and tied around his heart, continuously tugging him back for more. Ghost lets him, he’ll follow Soap like a dog, wait at his door for the next time he wants him, because that’s just who Ghost is.
“Fuck,” he groans, taking his hand off Soap’s throat and gripping his hips instead, tight enough to bruise, to mold the shape of his fingertips into Soap’s skin like he always does. Ghost wants to praise him, tell him how amazing this feels, how perfect he sounds and how pretty he looks, because fuck, Soap looks pretty like this.
There’s a flush going all the way down to his chest, this bright red that almost hurts Ghost’s eyes, tanned skin painted a whole new color, and he’s got this expression that’s somewhere between desperation and what looks like bliss, eyes pinched tightly shut, teeth biting at his bottom lip, chewing at the skin of it.
Ghost is terrible when it comes to words, he’s one of the worst, actually. But he tries, especially when his head is swimming like this, when he’s this close to cumming - he definitely tries.
“Just like that, Johnny,” he’s groaning, putting his face in Soap’s neck, biting at the skin for a moment, smiling when Soap lets out a choked sob, “Fuck. Fuck, you feel so good,” he keeps going, lets himself ramble at this point, say all the things he usually only lets himself think, because Soap is close, he can feel it, and they both deserve a nice orgasm or two, “Fuckin’.. fuck.”
Soap laughs at that last part, breathless and hardly there, his other hand going to his own cock and stroking it, fast, hard tugs that make Ghost realize he’s way closer to the finish line than Ghost thought he was. “Simon..” Soap whines, hips still pushing back against Ghost’s thrusts.
It’s mindless now, they’re both chasing their own highs. Ghost is fucking into him quick and rough, and Soap is falling apart with every meeting of skin, “Fuck, Simon, fuck—“ Soap repeats, chants Ghost’s name under his breath like a prayer.
Ghost smiles into his skin, “Don’t keep me waiting, Johnny,” he says, keeps his voice low, gravelly, biting into his skin right after, somewhere high on his neck, a place that’ll be hard to hide. Ghost bites and he sucks at the spot until he feels Soap tighten around him.
“F-Fuck. Fu-uck, Simon—!” Soap shouts, hand pausing its motions as he cums, hand still gripping Ghost’s hair tight, really digging his nails in now. Ghost fucks him through it, feels the way he shakes, how his body completely tightens.
That heat increases as Soap cums, tight around Ghost’s cock and relentless, like Soap is begging Ghost to follow right after - to which he does. It’s been building for awhile, so the heat shoots like a bullet through him. Soap doesn’t even finish cumming before Ghost is spilling inside him, a hand going to press against the wall to keep them both supported, his other arm wrapping around Soap to keep him supported, almost like a chokehold.
It lasts for what feels like years, that blinding heat that travels all throughout him, the tingle up his spine, the burning of his lungs. It lasts so long that the water starts to run cold, making Soap groan at the change of temperature, then laugh.
“Least we’re showering..” Soap laughs, and Ghost chuckles, shaking his head.
He doesn’t pull out just yet, lets himself stay inside Soap for a bit, kissing at his throat, rubbing his sides. Soap loves soft touches like this after something like that, and it seems like he likes being filled up a little more. So he stays inside for a bit longer, even when he starts to go soft.
“You’re an idiot, MacTavish.” Ghost replies with a smile.