Straight to Video

by concupiscent_cupid

Summary:

“Got a bit of a fetish for that, have we?”

Half of Ghost’s face came into view as he cocked his head. Mask still on, though he’d foregone the half-skull getup he saved for the field. In their downtime, he wore a plain balaclava.

“Sure I don’t know what you mean.” He hadn’t put the phone down. Soap kept his eyes up as he leaned back in to lick a stripe up the side of Ghost’s cock.

“The Narcos, they’ll take video.” He murmured, dropping his voice to a husky whisper and doing his best imitation of a Manch accent. Ghost’s thighs tensed on either side of his head as he sucked a kiss to the base of his head. “I won’t watch ‘em, not more than once, anyway. That what gets you off, Si’? Home movies of pretty boys gettin’ tortured?”

Notes:

yeah just like everyone else i've been hyperfixating on these two/MWII in general. and yes just like everyone else i haven't played the game BUT i have a lot of friends who've played since 2009 so don't come for me

anyways, That Line in the Alone missions did things to me, and this fic is the result of me thinking nonstop about Ghost having some kind of fetish for filming... Stuff. this first chapter is pretty tame, but the next one will have some darker themes (discussed beforehand and consented to by both parties ofc.) I'll add trigger warnings in the notes of the next chapter, so be sure to mind that + the tags.

kudos and comments are of course appreciated! if you'd like to keep up with me and my work, please check out my twitter @concupid

Chapter 1

Somewhere along the way, Soap had developed a Pavlovian response to the shutter click of Ghost's phone camera.

The third time (yes, he was keeping track) they'd had one of their sticky fumbles after lights out, Ghost had pulled his phone from his back pocket before shucking off his jeans. He'd thrown a meaty thigh over Soap's hip to straddle him, and snapped a photo before Soap had the chance to ask what he thought he was doing. Stupid geezer hadn't thought to turn off the flash, and the thing had gone off in Soap's face like a damn flashbang. He'd squawked and scrunched his eyes closed against the sudden light, and Ghost had laughed harder than Soap had ever heard him. He was still blinking spots out of his eyes when Ghost sunk down on him, warmtightperfect, and then his lieutenant's phone was swiftly shoved to the back of his mind.

That was the last time they were able to get together for a while. The 141 spent the next month jetting from mission to mission, from Russia to Afghanistan to Barbados. Through it all, Ghost and Soap were too tired for anything more than heated glances throughout the day and toothpaste-flavored kisses before passing out in whatever hotel or safehouse they were holed up in for the night. Eventually their leads dried up, and Price's frustration with the gone-cold trail meant the 141's return to their UK headquarters and a blessed few days of rest.

And Soap couldn't think of anything more restful than sitting between Ghost's knees, fingers kneading into the muscles of his thighs and the warm weight of a cock on his tongue. As much as he loved running his mouth, he liked putting it to use like this almost just as much. He loved kissing down someone's body, sucking at their clit or licking at their head and feeling the tremors pass through their body like a current though a wire. Ghost's reactions to having his dick sucked were his favorites, and Soap had made it his mission to commit each of them to memory. The arch of his lungs pressing against his skin every time he sucked in a breath. How his hands, brutal enough to drive a knife though a man's knee and delicate enough to load a magazine without looking, would flex in the grown-out length of Soap's mohawk every time he hollowed his cheeks. And the low, punched-out noise he'd make every time Soap swallowed him to the root, burying his nose in the dirty-blond thatch of hair at the base. Soap wanted to catalog them all, memorize which moves would produce which reactions, until he could play Ghost like an instrument.

In pursuit of this lofty artistic goal Soap flicked his eyes up, to watch the micro-expressions flick across Ghost's face if he had been magnanimous enough to take off his mask. When he glanced up, though, he wasn’t met with Ghost’s bonnie face. Or with his mask, for that matter. The back of his phone case, plain black and sturdy, obscured anything beyond his chest. Soap pulled off and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Got a bit of a fetish for that, have we?”

Half of Ghost’s face came into view as he cocked his head. Mask still on, though he’d foregone the half-skull getup he saved for the field. In their downtime, he wore a plain balaclava. Without the eyeblack (which he held as absolutely crucial for preventing the sun from messing with his aim, but Soap thought he just wore to look imposing) the flush across the bridge of his nose was obvious over his fair skin. A small sense of victory tugged in his gut. Ghost, flushed and wanting, for him. If that wasn’t a win in itself, he didn’t know what was.

“Sure I don’t know what you mean.” He hadn’t put the phone down. Soap kept his eyes up as he leaned back in to lick a stripe up the side of Ghost’s cock.

“The Narcos, they’ll take video.” He murmured, dropping his voice to a husky whisper and doing his best imitation of a Manch accent. Ghost’s thighs tensed on either side of his head as he sucked a kiss to the base of his head. “I won’t watch ‘em, not more than once, anyway. That what gets you off, Si’? Home movies of pretty boys gettin’ tortured?”

The hand in his hair tensed, pressing Soap’s mouth against his cock to get him to shut up. “I don’t hear you complaining.”

“No, you don’. Didn’t answer my question, though.”

“Like it as much as the next guy, I guess.”

“Really? This next guy hasn’t ever thought to take his damn phone out when he was gettin’ his willy wet.”

Ghost clicked his tongue. When Soap looked back up, Simon was dropping his phone onto the cot he was sat on. “If it bothers you…”

“Never said tha’.” Soap turned his head to press a kiss to the scar on the inside of Ghost’s thigh, close to the seam of his hip. It was thin and long, silvery tissue running up the already-pale skin. Every time he saw it, Soap was torn between wanting to know the story behind it and knowing that if Ghost did tell him, he wouldn’t be able to sleep until whoever had put it there was rotting beneath the sun. Thus far, he’d been able to keep a lead on his curiosity by reminding himself that, knowing his lieutenant, the tosser was likely long gone anyways.

“Then why bring it up?”

Soap bit his lip to keep from cooing. Ghost was cute when he got surly, but when he tried to use grumpiness to hide his own embarrassment, he was downright irresistible.

“Just wanna know what makes the infamous Ghost tick. Get inside that skull o’ yours, so to speak.”

“Keep bein’ cheeky and you won’t be the one getting inside anything, Johnny.”

Soap reared up on his knees, settling his elbows on Ghost’s thighs and putting their faces close enough to kiss. “Aren’t threats supposed to be somethin’ the other party doesn’t want, Simon?”

Things moved quickly after that, the way they always seemed to when Soap goaded Ghost the way only he could get away with. Ghost ripped his mask off at some point, the urge to suck kisses into Soap’s back stronger than whatever kept him hidden. They crowded together on the cot after, Simon on his back and Soap on his side, doing his best to commit his profile to memory to put down in his notebook later.

“I really don’t mind it, you know.”

“Mn?” Ghost’s eyes were drooping. It was their first night back from a series of missions, after all, and as always, no one had worked harder than Ghost.

“The video thing.”

It was dark by now, but he knew Ghost was blushing. Same way he could guess which rooftop Ghost would favor as a sniper’s perch, or what the exact layout of his tray would be at breakfast tomorrow. “Y’said you weren’t into it.”

“I said I’d never thought about it before.”

The ridge of Simon’s brow shifted as he looked over at Johnny. “And now?”

“Now I think I could be convinced, if someone asked me nice enough.”

The silhouette of Ghost’s chest puffed out in a surprised little laugh. “You’re not getting me to beg. Greater men than you have tried.”

“I’m sure they ‘ave. Good thing I know how to turn your wheels.”

“Yeah?’ It was the same amused purr that had seen Soap through Las Almas, that came through his earpiece every time Soap downed a hostile in some flashy way he’d devised purely to get Ghost’s attention. The things he’d do, to keep Simon talking to him in that voice. “An’ how’s that?”

Soap threw a leg over Simon’s and settled a hand on his chest, like he was a body pillow. “What they don’t know about you, love, ‘s there isn’t a man or woman alive that could break you with a stick. But a carrot? Tha’s what you’re weak for, mo chridhe.”

The steady beat beneath Johnny’s hand picked up, and he didn’t try to hide his smile. Typical. Ghost was controlled enough to put a bullet between someone’s eyes between the beats of his own heart, but when it came to this, he couldn’t get a hold on himself any more than a teenager could. Soap felt a little wicked, taking advantage of Simon’s inexperience with genuine tenderness. Truth be told, he’d rather the man be less of a killing machine if it meant he could’ve had a touch better of an upbringing. But this was the hand they’d been dealt, and if someone was going to smother Simon “Ghost” Riley with affection, he was grateful to be the one.

“Yeah?” To his credit, Ghost was able to keep his voice steady. “Try me.”

“What if, next he was on leave, ol’ Soap were to get abducted by some big, scary English bloke? And said bloke dragged him back to his flat with a mind to make some videos of his own? Why, I don’t know what poor Soap would do.”

Simon’s chest hitched on his next inhale. His heart pounded against the inside of his ribs, like it was trying to leap from his body and into Soap’s waiting hand. “You’d- We could- You would do that?”

“You know how to ask, gaol.”

Simon turned over then, moving with all the speed and grace he possessed in the battlefield to wrap an arm around Soap and press his face into the angle of his neck.

“Please.” His voice was quiet against Johnny’s skin, small in a way he’d never heard it. It almost scared him, to hear Ghost sound so vulnerable. “Please, I want to, if you- That sounds-”

“Alright, alright.” Soap slung his leg properly over Simon’s hip, slid the hand trapped between their chests under his arm to wrap around him. For all his teasing, he could never truly deny Ghost anything. “That’s good enough, ya’ big lug.”

Even when he quieted down, Ghost stayed suctioned to him. Soap thought this must be how mother sloths felt, with their babies hanging off them all day. He wished he was strong enough to carry Ghost around like that, slung over his back or clinging to his front. He could be Superman and Ghost wouldn't let that happen, but the mental image still made Soap laugh. Tossing Ghost over his shoulder so he could make coffee and eat breakfast, using Ghost's shoulder as a chinrest during briefings.

"What's so damn funny?" Ah, Ghost was no longer "covering up his shyness" grumpy, he was genuinely annoyed. Soap pressed a kiss to his temple.

"Not laughin' at you, love. You're my little baby sloth, 'sall."

He didn't have to see Ghost to know the expression that passed over his face, because it was the same one every time Soap said something daffy. Face gone slack, wrinkle forming above his raised eyebrows, blond eyelashes batting as he blinked rapidly like that would make his sargeant's rambling make sense.

"'D I fuck your brains out? Do we need to go to medical?"

"Come off, that's no' the strangest thing you've heard me say."

"You've got me there." Ghost extricated himself from Soap, freeing the smaller man from his mile-long limbs. Not that Johnny wanted to be untied from that particular knot, but they were both exhausted from the 141's road trip around the world. And as much as he wished otherwise, men their size getting decent sleep squeezed into a military-issued cot was as likely as the whole baby sloth thing. Soap had thought about pushing two beds together, but he was starting to worry Price had made them. He didn't think their captain would call them out on it as long as the team wasn't affected, but if he was wrong, one or both of them could be removed from the team, maybe even discharged. Waking up to Simon's sleepy kisses and morning breath wasn't worth the risk. Not by much, though.

Ghost tossed him his undershirt, and Soap only sat up enough to pull it over his head. He didn't notice anything was wrong until he pushed his arms through; the tips of his fingers were swallowed by the cuffs, and the underarms and neckline felt too loose. He looked up at Ghost’s shadowy silhouette for some kind of explanation. It wasn't until he saw his partner struggling to get a too-small shirt over his chest that his work- and sex-addled brain put it together. In the dark, Simon had tossed Soap his shirt. Ghost seemed to come to the same conclusion at the same time. Soap didn't have time to fully appreciate the familiar thrill that ran through him every time their minds seemed to work as one, because Simon tugged the thing off and held a hand down towards Johnny.

"Give it 'ere."

Soap hugged his arms around himself. "No."

"Johnny. Give it." Ghost was using the same tone one might use to address a naughty dog, and Soap's stomach swooped low like he'd just driven over a dip in the road.

"Y'cannae make me."

As it turned out, Simon could make him. Of all the torture methods stored in his brilliant brain and talented hands, he chose straddling Soap and tickling his sensitive ribs until he was able to ruck the shirt up and over his head. Say what you want about his unconventional tactics, Ghost always got the job done.

"I should go," Soap said later, between lazy kisses. He was in his own shirt now, and had pulled on the joggers he wore around base. Of course, it had taken him five times as long to get dressed when Ghost kept winding him in for saccharine smooches.

"Yeah. Wouldn't want Price catching you out past your bedtime."

"I shudder to think." Soap ran his palms up Ghost's chest and towards his shoulders. "I meant what I said, you know. Next time we're on leave, I wanna try it."

Ghost's eyes dropped to his chest. Never a fan of direct eye contact, especially not when he was feeling shy. "You don't have-"

"But I want to. Have you ever been able to get me to do something I didn't want to?"

Simon's eyebrow twitched up. "When did you get so smart, eh?"

"Said I was gonna be better than you, didn't I?" Soap kissed Simon's nose, before stepping out of his arms. "Ta', love. Sleep well."

He wanted nothing more than to fall back into Simon's arms, pull him down into bed and smother him in kisses. In the dark, Soap could convince himself that the same longing was plain on Simon's face.

"Sleep well."

Chapter 2

Summary:

A mechanical clunk and soft sliding sound clued Soap in to the opening of a door. His stomach swooped and Ghost’s back was pulled from his field of view as he was thrown in the backseat of a van. He struggled onto his back so he could prop himself up on his forearms. Simon stood in the doorway, blocking any possible way out and resting an arm over the open door.

“I’m gonna take you somewhere real romantic, real sexy. Then, I’m gonna take you apart, and fuck you ‘til the light in those pretty eyes goes out. Sound good?”

Ghost didn’t wait for an answer. He slammed the door shut, and Soap was endlessly grateful for it. The way his eyes rolled back in arousal would have ruined the scene. Ghost really said the sweetest things.

Notes:

sorry for the change in chapter numbers, this part got away from me and i decided to dedicate an entire chapter to the buildup.

content warning for: kidnapping, threats of rape, and threats of violence. these are all previously-agreed on and discussed between Soap and Ghost before their scene, but still. mind the tags!

thank you for your support on my previous chapter. i'm not used to posting fanfic for such an active fandom! i hope this and the next chapter live up to your expectations.

It was another four months until they got an opportunity to take leave. The Makarov character Laswell and Price had told them about was getting busy, and not just in Eastern Europe. The bastard seemed to have fingers in just about every pie on the wrong side of the law, and all over the world to boot. Every time they untangled one of his knots, the other end led them to another country, another continent, a completely different kind of operation. A human trafficking ring they busted in Pakistan led them to a massive illicit drug production in rural North Korea. That took them close enough to Russia to check in with their contacts in surrounding countries, and of course that drummed up a slew of new leads for them to chase.

Though the weeks whipped past in a whirlwind, Soap and Ghost were able to enjoy the precious little downtime they had. Price made sure to bring the team back to HQ at least once every few weeks to rest and recuperate, because he was considerate like that. The 141 spent most of these breaks by themselves; no matter how much you liked your teammates, sleeping, working, and shitting with them for two weeks straight was enough to send anyone in search of some alone time.

Unless, hypothetically, you were fucking one of those teammates. And, hypothetically, you’d spent those two weeks attached at the damn hip to that teammate, because you two worked well together, but you weren’t allowed to touch and kiss and hold the way you wanted because of stupid shit like the rules and the threat of dishonorable discharge. Then, hypothetically, you and that teammate would spend the days and nights of your break competing to see who could suck whose lungs out through their mouth first. Hypothetically.

Soap learned a lot about Ghost between when he first suggested their rendezvous and when they executed it. He learned that he and Ghost complimented each other as well in the bedroom as they did on the battlefield. It was almost like they’d been made for each other, cut from the same cloth, two sides of the same coins, all that sappy shit. Soap had been on a wavelength his whole life, he realized that now, and Simon Riley was the first partner he’d had who was crazy enough to meet him there. The very day Soap wondered how rough Ghost would get with him, the bastard flipped him on his stomach, shoved a spare balaclava in his mouth to keep him quiet, and fucked him until he sobbed. When Soap's mouth ran away with him and he let slip how badly he wanted to breed Ghost, he didn't get the opportunity to apologize for saying something so daft because Simon was clenching around him and shooting off untouched.

Soap learned that he was crazy, that Ghost was crazy. Or maybe they made each other crazy, their madness feeding on each others' like some fucked up ouroborus. Ghost suggested they come up with a safeword, something both of them could remember even in the fevered heat of the moment. Soap immediately suggested 'Minerva,' the brand of cigars Captain Price had favored since either of them had joined the 141. They'd both spent enough time choking on the Captain's secondhand smoke during briefings, transport, and nights of close-quarters lodging that it was the surest boner-killer either of them could think of. Ghost had laughed at his reasoning, but hadn't disputed it. They still hadn't used it in earnest, hadn't reached the edges of the depravity they pushed each other to. But they kept checking in, increasingly so as their play got rougher and more dangerous.

Sometime in the middle of summer, Price announced on the flight home that it would be a few weeks before their next assignment. Their current leads had dried up, and even if one of his contacts came through with something soon it would take a while to gather the necessary information and resources. The rest of the 141 sagged in the heli seats they were strapped into, relief momentarily overcoming discipline.

Except for Johnny. When he chanced a glance at Simon, he found his lieutenant’s eyes looking right back at him. He spent the rest of the flight back to base bouncing his knee, drumming his fingers, cleaning his guns. Anything to expel his excitement at making good on their plans, his worry about someone else putting in for leave before him.

He made his way to the Captain's office as soon as they landed, still fully geared up and stinking from a week of camping in the Australian brush.

Asking Price for a week of leave felt disturbingly similar to asking his dad if he could use the car for the night. Except instead of having his nose buried in a paper, the Captain's eyes flicked over a briefing of a meeting he'd missed while leading their recent operation.

Price let the silence after his request for a week of leave hang just long enough for Soap's mind to eat itself in worry. Had enough members of the 141 already asked that he couldn't spare more people? Did he have another assignment for them already?

Finally, Price's eyes flicked up over the rims of the glasses he'd started needing to read. Soap flexed his hands where he was loosely holding them behind his back.

"Is there something I need to know, Sargeant?"

Soap did his best not to let his shock show on his face. "Sir?"

"Ghost and yourself have been spending a lot of time together, no?"

Acting had never been Soap's strongest skill. His emotions were too big, his thoughts too obvious, and he'd never learned how not to let them show on his face. It never used to upset him. He wasn't clever enough to lie, why not let his feelings show? Now, standing in Price's office, he desperately wished he had even a fraction of Ghost's control over his expression and body language. He fought to keep his face neutral, his tone measured. Being in the field with Ghost made him feel brave enough to rush into an enemy compound barehanded, crazy enough to kick an active grenade with his bare foot. Soap could keep a lid on it. For him.

"I've been getting to know everyone on the team better, sir. If I've been spending more time with Ghost, it's 'cause I've been spending more time with everyone. Sir."

Price sat back in his desk chair. He pulled his glasses off and let them dangle from between his fingers as he spoke. "Sargeant, were you aware that Ghost has also put in for a week of leave?"

Though he didn't have to lie to give Price the answer he wanted, Soap had to fight to keep the giddy swoop in his gut from showing on his face. When had Ghost even had time to talk to Price about leave? How had he known they'd have the opportunity after this mission? "No, sir, I was not."

Price studied him a moment, his mustache twitching down. Soap chewed the inside of his cheek, then made himself stop. With Price, and especially Chief Laswell, it was safest to assume they caught everything, down to the most minor movements. The Captain kept him in suspense for a few breaths, until he either found whatever he was looking for in Soap’s face, or decided he couldn’t be arsed. He leaned back in his office chair, and slid his glasses back over his nose.

“I have been running you boys down, these past few weeks. And I suppose Ghost is only human, after all.”

“As much as he’d like us to believe otherwise, sir.” Soap felt his mouth shape into the crooked grin he was sure always gave him away when he talked about his lieutenant. Thankfully, Price’s focus was already back on his meeting notes.

“It’ll probably be a few days before either of you hear back, you know admin. But I can’t imagine they’d have any problem, especially not with all the leave you two have racked up. Get some rest, Sergeant. Dismissed.”

Soap didn’t let himself smile the way he wanted to, even when he turned on his heel and made his way to the door. He was sure there would be some change in the line of his shoulders, some shift of his ears, that Price would pick up on and call him back, grill him further. His resolve held until he was halfway down the hall. Ghost and him. Ghost and him together. Together for a whole week. A week kicked off by them playing through one of his filthiest fantasies, that he’d rarely let himself indulge in for the unsexy guilt and shame it engendered once he’d blown his load. But Ghost was into it too, with his own twist of filming the whole thing. Ghost was a legend in their field, capable of inhuman greatness and distinctly human goodness. If it was a fantasy he had, it couldn’t be a bad thing, right?

 

His leave was approved two days later. Soap rolled off of where he’d been drooling on Ghost’s chest to check the notification on his phone, and when he did, he whooped.

“Hell yeah! We’re in, L.T.!”

Ghost’s eyes pinched closed at his loud enthusiasm. It was early, and he’d never been a morning person. “Fantastic. Mine got confirmed yesterday.”

Soap flopped down on his side, his head propped up on a hand. “And y’didn’t think to tell me?”

Ghost shrugged, as well as he could while he was laying on his back. “If yours had gotten rejected, I wouldn’tve left base. Figured it wasn’t important until we knew for sure.”

“Aww, y’softie.” Soap wriggled closer to attack Simon’s face with kisses. He sighed like he hated it, but slung an arm over Soap all the same.

 

Twenty-four hours later, he was on a flight to Glasgow. Ghost had taken a redeye eight hours earlier, his reasoning no more explicit than that he had some “finishing touches” to put on everything. The implications in that had Soap fidgeting through the entire flight. What did Ghost have planned for him? They’d agreed on “meeting” at a pub near Soap’s flat, where he would wait for Simon to stand him up before a “mysterious stranger” abducted him.

How was he going to do it? Chloroform didn’t work like they showed in the movies, and Ghost wouldn’t risk causing him brain damage with a blow to the head to knock him out. That all but ruled out taking him while he was unconscious. Would he be sly, try and trick Soap to get into his car? Or no-nonsense, keep his presence unknown until there was a gun at Soap’s back and a rough voice at his ear murmuring directions until they reached some secondary location?

He’d never been so excited to be stood up on a date.

The cab dropped him off in front of his flat in the late afternoon. Everything was just as he’d left it, with the addition of a fine layer of dust. His sister, bless her, swung by every month or so to check on his mail and clean the place up a bit.

He’d tried to make the flight go faster by planning his outfit. The dark jeans that made his ass look good, the soft grey henley he could unbutton to show off the dip of his collarbone, and a black bomber jacket. He laid the ensemble out on his bed, and headed for the bathroom.

His love of bath products and his habit of being the last out of the communal showers had earned him his callsign in basic, but no one in the army had witnessed the true extent of Soap’s obsession. He’d chosen this flat specifically for its shower, a proud thing with a sliding door and a rain shower head that he regularly missed more than members of his own family. After moving in, he’d installed shelves along each wall to hold his hoard of soaps, scrubs, treatments, and lotions.

He always spent at least an hour on his first shower of a leave. He’d grown up in a tenement, on the same floor as his aunts, uncles, and cousins. When one flat’s water was broken or someone needed to wash up before work or school, it was common to pop over to the next room to use theirs. Looking back he was sure it was dispersed equally across the family, but in his childhood it had always seemed that everyone chose the room he and his mom lived in, and always when he was in the middle of his. An entire shower without someone banging on his door to ‘hurry up’ had been a rare luxury for the first eighteen years of his life, and one he afforded himself as often as he could now that he was an adult.

Tonight, of course, called for additional pampering. He rubbed his skin raw with vanilla-scented sugar scrub, softened his grown-out mohawk with too-expensive shampoo and conditioner. He had several body washes to pick from, but one clear choice. A fancy French soap one of his cousins had gifted him, more expensive than even he could justify and therefore used sparingly. It had come with a matching lotion, which he slathered on once he found the willpower to get out of the shower and dry off.

He dried his hair, pulled on the outfit he’d left in his room, and gave himself a once-over in his bedroom mirror. He whistled. Maybe it had been too long since he’d seen himself in jeans, maybe the new incline leg press machine they’d got for the gym at base really was making that much of a difference. Either way, his ass looked aces. No one would be able to resist, least of all a Mancunian abductor. Soap pulled on his jacket, and checked his pockets. Keys, wallet, phone, condom, single-use packet of lube. Say what you like, John MacTavish always came prepared.

 

He was full to bursting with nerves and excitement as he made his way to The Singing Wagon. He’d always been energetic and never been too good at hiding it. The military had forced him to get better at keeping still and silent, fidgeting during roll call or humming during a stakeout were generally frowned upon. He was able to keep a lid on himself when his job or life depended on it, but here, home, with the knowledge of what he and Ghost were about to do itching under his skin, he needed a pressure valve.

“Well, I never seen the like since I been born,” he sang under his breath as he approached the pub. It was a shanty he’d heard before, though he couldn’t remember where. A movie? In a bar? On the street?

“A railroad navvy with his seaboots on,” as he walked through the door.

“When Johnny comes down t’Hilo, poor old man!” As he was enveloped completely in the homey smells of alcohol and food and the hum of patrons. The place was small, cozy, and Soap made a beeline for the bar.

“Oh wake ‘im, oh shake ‘im, oh wake that lad with the skull mask on, when Johnny-”

“T’ose aren’t the lyrics.”

Soap blinked at the woman behind the bar. She was tall, maybe had an inch on him. Salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a tight bun, a stocky build. She had a ‘don’t fuck with me’ air about her that made him miss Chief Laswell. Soap wondered if she was former military.

“Pardon?”

“The song yer singin’! Got it all wrong! It goes oh wake ‘er, oh shake ‘er, oh wake that girl with th’blue dress on. What’d you say about a skull?”

Soap settled his elbows on the bar counter. He probably looked like a dope, smiling the way he was, but he couldn’t help it. “Tha’s how my version goes. Scotch, please.”

“You sure? Sounded way off, to me.”

“Shanties change dependin’ on who’s singin’, no?”

The lady clicked her tongue but set about fixing his drink, clearly uninterested in entertaining an upstart prick. Just as well. Soap sat on an open stool and took out his phone, navigating to he and Simon’s chain of texts. Their personal phones didn’t have nearly as much communication stored as the issued cells they used for work, but that almost added to the act they were putting on for themselves and each other.

Johnny: theres a place near mine, the singing wagon. i’ll be there at 7. dont stand me up again >:(

Simon: Should I bring flowers?

Johnny: think you can charm your way back into my good graces eh?

Simon: No charm needed for that. But it couldn’t hurt to butter you up a little, right?

Johnny: ill have you know im not that easy!!! youll have to do better than that

Simon: I do love a challenge.

 

He’d read over the messages at least 100 times. The pixels were probably permanently imprinted in his retinas, but they still made his heart flutter. Soap lets himself slip into the role he was meant to play; naive, unassuming guy, planning to see his scumbag of a boyfriend who kept standing him up. A hero at the start of a movie, sure he has it all figured out and blissfully unaware of the journey he’s about to go on.

Except he did know, because Ghost had sat him down as soon as their leave had been approved. Walked through his plans, asked for Soap’s input, the same way they would before a mission. Some decisions had been left up to Ghost, at Soap’s request. Some of the excitement was taken away from a kidnapping if the kidnap-ee knew every last detail, right? But they’d both gone over what they knew they wanted to do, what they absolutely didn’t want, what they were unsure of but willing to try. Soap’s knee bounced underneath the bar counter.

He’d decided on two drinks. Not because he needed them to get through what they were planning, but because he needed something to keep him in the bar for a reasonable amount of time. Left to his own devices, he’d spend ten minutes loitering before rushing out to the alley behind the pub and into his kidnapper’s arms. The scotch was good, the burn forcing him to take it slow.

Halfway through his drink, the bartender drifted back towards him. “Y’waiting on someone, dearie?”

Soap grinned and ducked his head. It was supposed to be an act, a part of his character, but truthfully, the giddy anticipation was already ten times as potent as it would be before a genuine rendezvous.

“Aye, go’ a date. Should be showin’ up any minute, now.”

The lady nodded, her small smile turned towards the bar counter as she wiped down. Soap looked around. Plenty of people milled around, bringing drinks back to their tables and chatting with their friends, but it wasn’t as packed as it might be on a weekend. All the better. Their consensual kidnapping wasn’t completely without risk. Though Ghost was efficient, there was always the chance that someone saw a 6’4 unit in a balaclava abducting a local boy from an alley. Soap was sure Ghost could shake off any police who might be called, but it would definitely put a damper on their evening. The less people who might duck out for a smoke or a piss, the better.

As he finished his drink, Soap wondered what Ghost was doing, right at this very second. Did he have any last-minute preparations he needed to attend to? Probably not. Knowing him, everything had been arranged before he even boarded his flight to Glasgow. What, then? Was he playing with his knives? Fiddling with his gear? What was he going to wear? Was he thinking about Soap, the way Soap was thinking about him? Probably. Simon was just as insane as he was, somehow able to match Soap’s near-obsession with his own fixation. What was so interesting about him as to grab a spec ops legend’s attention and keep it, Soap hadn’t the faintest idea. All he knew was that he was lucky, that there was someone else in this world with a fucked-up amygdala like his, that needed the same blend of pain and pleasure and fear and comfort that he did. He was even luckier that that someone was someone he genuinely cared for and admired. Whatever was wrong with him, it was wrong with Simon too, and that made it okay.

“‘Nother drink?”

Soap blinked. The bartender was back again, her eyebrows raised expectantly He’d drifted off into his own thoughts, probably hadn’t responded when she’d asked him the first time. The bar was emptier than when he’d zoned out. It was getting late enough that most people had to get back home if they wanted to get to bed at a decent time. Perfect, that would sell the illusion he was trying to portray all the more. Not that he was trying to sell it to anyone besides himself, and maybe Ghost.

“Sure, thanks.”

He did his best to make his second drink last longer than the first. Soap made a game out of it, tried to see if he could go slow enough that he wouldn’t get a buzz at all. Around him, patrons continued to filter out of the pub. By the time he finished his second scotch, Soap was one of five people in the bar, and the tender was looking at him with sympathetic eyes.

“Want another?”

Soap tried to make his responding smile the half-grimace of someone who’d actually been stood up rather than the giddy grin of a schoolgirl about to meet her crush, and pulled two £10 notes from his wallet. It was probably more than the drinks had been worth, but he didn’t have the patience to stand there and count. Besides, he felt a little bad about lying to the woman, even as innocent (kinda) as it was. She seemed genuinely sad for him.

“Reckon I’ll just call it a night. Thanks for the swallie, love.”

The streets were quieter than when he’d arrived. Soap glanced at his phone. 21:00 on the dot, he’d been in there for nearly two hours. He was impressed with his own restraint, he hadn’t thought he’d be able to last longer than an hour. He slipped between the pub and the next building over, his shoulders brushing the brick of their walls until he reached an alley barely big enough for a car to squeeze through. A weak, warm light shone over the back door of the pub, and Soap made his way under it. He didn’t want to makehimself too easy of a target, after all. Soap hadn’t smoked since he’d started basic, but the character he was playing did. He fished the pack out of his jacket pocket, tore the perforated edge open, and tapped one out.

His lighter was barely back in his pocket before movement in his peripheral drew his gaze down the alley. The shadows shifted, gathered, culminated in the shape of a man. Soap did his best to smother his smile. At least he wasn’t alone in his impatience.

“Bum a cig?”

Ghost’s voice had the hairs on his arms standing up. It had barely been three days since they’d spoke, but accustomed as he was to seeing Ghost on the daily, Soap had been starting to feel deprived. Simon’s drawl tugged at something in his gut, compelled him to come closer the way a leash would a dog. But that wasn’t the game they were playing. He wasn’t supposed to know the stranger approaching him, wasn’t supposed to fall over himself like the lovesick fool he was. He could pretend Ghost’s voice didn’t turn his spine to custard, at least for a while. He turned his head in the direction of his voice, the way he would if it were a random nobody approaching him.

It took everything in him not to laugh. From the medical mask (black, of course), to the sunglasses at night, to the hood pulled over his baseball cap, Ghost couldn’t have looked more suspicious if he tried. Which he probably have, given the role he was meant to play.

“Sure, here.” Soap tapped a cigarette from the pack, and held it out to Ghost. Even with the cartoonish getup, he still cut an imposing figure. It was how he carried himself, sure enough in his abilities that there was no need to project false confidence. Ghost could wear a frilly apron, and still manage to be intimidating.

The hand that plucked the cigarette from between his fingers was covered in a black glove, thin knit material as opposed to the thick, rubbery ones they used for field work.

“Pardon me, but what’s a mint little thing like you doin’ back ‘ere on your lonesome?”

Soap’s skin tingled, like the words were physical touch drawn down his arms. Simon’s accent was coming through more than usual. Was this just what he sounded like on leave, when he wasn’t on the job? Or was he doing it intentionally, a part of the costume he was wearing for the night? Either way, the Mancunian grabbed Soap by the balls. He smiled in what he hoped was a convincingly sad way.

“Got stood up. Figured I’d stop for one before drowinin’ my sorrows somewhere else.”

Ghost made a wounded little coo in the back of his throat, and pressed closer into Soap’s space. Close enough that, if Ghost were a real stranger, Soap would’ve asked him to step off. But the character he’s playing has to be stupidly naive for their scene to work. So he tilted his head to the side and offered a guileless smile up to Ghost. “Need a light, mate?”

Years ago, Soap had learned how to read Simon just by his tone of voice. Later, when Ghost got comfortable enough with the team to go maskless in their downtime, he’d been able to match the slight shifts in his inflection to the microexpressions even Simon Riley couldn’t stifle. So, though he couldn’t see Simon’s eyes through his sunglasses, or mouth through his medical mask, he knew the expression his partner was wearing. He knew how the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes would deepen, how his lower eyelids pushed up with his pleased smile. He knew, because that’s the way his face always looked when his voice got low and predatory.

“Nah, mate. I don’ smoke.”

The punch to his gut was firm enough to be felt, but nowhere near hard enough to cause internal damage. If they were in the field, Soap could have shrugged it off. Might’ve even laughed in his enemy’s face. But he wasn’t meant to be tough here, quite the opposite. So he let his breath rush out of him like he’d been winded, and let his body jerk forward to try and protect his organs. Smooth as oil, Ghost bent enough at his knees to put his shoulder in the hollow of the curve of Johnny’s body. Ghost stood easily, and with the center of his gravity slung over his shoulder, Soap went with him.

He squirmed, even as Ghost wrapped an arm around the backs of his knees, beat his fists against Ghost’s ass and thighs. The man kept walking, like the wriggling, cursing Scot over his shoulder was no more of a bother than an angry kitten. “The hell d’ya think you’re doin’? Fucker, put me down!”

Something thin, hard, and unmistakably metal pressed against the backs of Soap’s knees. “Pipe down, love. Be good, and I won’t peel your ‘amstrings out your calves. Sound good?”

Soap gasped, and it wasn’t a conscious effort put on for show. He didn’t often get the pleasure of hearing Ghost like this. He’s saved for the interrogation room, for the toughest nuts they needed to crack. Soap had sat in on more of those sessions than he could count, his fascination perverse and morbid and stronger than he could fight. Though he wasn’t in any real danger now, it felt different being the one Ghost was threatening rather than an outside observer. Any sane person wouldn’t find it so arousing. Thankfully, neither of them were sane, and if Ghost felt the half-chub pushing against his shoulder he didn’t say anything about it.

“What do you want? Money? Wallet’s in m’pocket, you can have whatever you want, just please, put me down.” Soap tried to sound scared and not like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. Ghost laughed under his breath, and gave the back of his thigh an appreciative squeeze.

“Gonna take somethin’ from you, love, but it ain’t gonna be money.”

Soap clenched his jaw and pressed his forehead against the small of Simon’s back. Every step the man took sent his cock grinding against Ghost’s jacket. Between that and his words, Soap feared this night was about to end before it began. “Wh-What do you mean?”

A mechanical clunk and soft sliding sound clued Soap in to the opening of a door. His stomach swooped and Ghost’s back was pulled from his field of view as he was thrown in the backseat of a van. He struggled onto his back so he could prop himself up on his forearms. Simon stood in the doorway, blocking any possible way out and resting an arm over the open door.

“I’m gonna take you somewhere real romantic, real sexy. Then, I’m gonna take you apart, and fuck you ‘til the light in those pretty eyes goes out. Sound good?”

Ghost didn’t wait for an answer. He slammed the door shut, and Soap was endlessly grateful for it. The way his eyes rolled back in arousal would have ruined the scene. Ghost really said the sweetest things.

Chapter 3

Notes:

This one is kind of an interlude. I have most of the next chapter written, but it really felt like it was getting too long!! Sorry to tease y'all, I promise they bump uglies next chapter.

As always, kudos and comments are appreciated! Check out my Twitter @concupid for lots of fandom stuff, including Ghoap :')

His hands weren’t bound, he could sit up if he wanted to. Soap didn’t want to. He watched the lights of the Glasgow streets rush by him in warm blurs through lidded eyes, nearly lulled to sleep by the comfortable silence. And wasn’t that a mindfuck? He was supposed to be a kidnapping victim. Yet without Ghost’s eyes on him, without his partner engaging in the scene, Soap couldn’t pretend to himself. Between the gentle hum of the engine beneath his ear and how safe Ghost was able to make him feel with his mere presence, Soap felt himself relax in a way he rarely did. He could afford to, after all. Ghost was here. Ghost would protect him. If anything happened, Ghost would keep him safe.

“Whas’yer name?”

Soap’s eyelashes fluttered open. It was a simple psychological trick, but one that worked like a charm in interrogations. Captives were more likely to obey if they were addressed by their name. Soap had never understood the brain mechanics of it, couldn’t remember the name or if it even had one. But the primal fear that bolted through him any time his mom or aunt called him ‘John Neil MacTavish’, that was strong enough for him to get the idea. A person’s name could be found easily if they had identifying documents on them, like a bank card or dog tags, but getting them to tell you themselves established dominance. Helped the captor slip into the dominating role, primed the captive to follow orders and do what they were told. In another life, Ghost would have made an amazing serial killer. Then again, weren’t they both, in this life? In service to world peace or not, they both had body counts that would make Jack the Ripper blush.

“Oi.” The rumble of Ghost’s voice, barely distinguishable from that of the car, drew Soap’s attention back to now. Though the sunglasses kept him from seeing where Ghost’s eyes were, he could feel them on him through the rearview mirror. Soap wondered how well he was actually able to see with them on at night. “Name, gorgeous. Don’t make me ask again.”

He clenched his jaw, the way he would if he were really in a hostage situation. “John. ‘S John.”

“John.” Ghost said it slowly. Let it roll around in his mouth like it was the first time saying it, like he’d never met one of the millions of Johns in the world. Soap’s toes curled in his loafers. “Strong name, that. Very masculine. I daresay it doesn’t fit you at all.”

He can hear Simon’s smirk, even if he can’t see it. “You’ll have to take’t up with me ma’. I dinnae have much say in the matter.”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t want me to.”

“You haven’t met me ma’.” Soap wanted him to. Wanted to show Simon off to his loud, huge family and rub their faces in how perfect he was. Wanted to introduce him to his mother and watch her shake her head at him for falling in love with a Brit. He wanted it so badly, so suddenly, that he felt it in his chest.

The back of Ghost’s head tilted away from the seat’s headrest, like he was thinking. “I’ll call you Johnny, I think. ‘S cute, like a dog’s name. Fits you much better.”

Soap stiffened, let Ghost hear his small, sharp inhale. “Don’t,” he managed, making his voice sound as uncertain as he could. “Please.”

Ghost scoffed, and the sound bloomed hot over the bridge of Soap’s nose. “Not that I give a shit, but why not?”

“‘S… It’s what my boyfriend calls me.”

Ghost was silent just long enough for Soap to wonder if that was okay, calling him his boyfriend. They’d never really defined their relationship, hadn’t felt the need to. What was more intimate than what they already had? Soap regularly put his life in Ghost’s hands, and vice versa. He’d known couples married twenty years that didn’t have that kind of trust for each other. But maybe Ghost didn’t feel the same. Maybe this was just a way for him to get his rocks off, and he didn’t want there to be anything more to it. Maybe Soap had ruined this whole thing, their entire relationship, because he’d spoken before thinking. Wouldn’t be the first time.

He was genuinely anxious now, teeth worrying at his lip, by the time Ghost let out a low, mean laugh. “Boyfriend, eh? Shoulda known. Tell me about ‘im.”

Soap let out the breath he’d been holding. It was hard to keep his smile out of his voice, but he didn’t think Ghost would mind. Soap was about to talk him up, after all.

“He’s tall, and strong, and he’s in the military! Spec ops, so you’d better let me go right now if you know-”

“Nice try, love. Not ‘appening. Keep talkin’, though, I like the sound of your voice.”

Soap squeezed his eyes shut and thumped his temple against the carseat. What a perfect, awful, beautiful bastard.

“He’s smart, and cool, without even having to try. And kind, too, in a quiet sort of way. He’s attentive, kows how I like my coffee and won’ let me drink more than a cup a day ‘cause I get fidgety. He lets me sleep on the right side of the bed, even though he likes the right side, too. Not to mention he’s hot as hell. That’s no’ why I like him, of course, but it doesn’t hurt none, aye?”

Ghost laughed, soft and muffled by his mask. “Sounds like you really love ‘im.”

For the first time during this kidnapping, Soap’s heart pounded in his chest. There was a line here, he could feel it, demarcating safety and truth.

“I do. I really, really do.”

Another laugh, just as quiet but breathier than the last. Almost incredulous. When he spoke, Ghost’s voice was lacking the malice it had been dripping when he was in character.

“Isn’t that something?”

Warmth spread through him, tingling from his scalp to his toenails. He spent the rest of the ride like that, a giddy bubble of energy growing in him as he lay in the backseat. By the time Ghost pulled to a stop and got out of the car, Soap felt like he was glowing.

Ghost wrangled him out of the backseat with a hand fisted in his henley. Soap kept his hands at the small of his back, right wrist over the left, like they were bound in a zip tie. Ghost hadn’t gone that far, but it felt right.

Ghost had brought them to a collection of storage units, the kind you rented out to store your shite if you didn’t have a garage or if you were moving house. Though cars rumbled down the highways and roads around them, this small pocket of the city existed in its own bubble of silence. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that he and Ghost were the only people in the world.

Warmth, solid and unyielding, pressed against his back. “Gimme a sit-rep, Johnny. Everything still good?”

Soap’s knees turned to jelly, and not from fear. That was the Ghost for you. Always kept his head, no matter the mission. Affection laced with the adrenaline pumped through Soap’s nervous system. Ghost’s hand pushed gentle on his lower back, guiding him towards the unassuming door on the side of the warehouse.

“Good, great, downright jolly. You’ve got no idea how good. Say, you know any doctors?”

Ghost’s laugh was warm over his left shoulder. “Feelin’ ill?”

“No, no, nothin’ like that. It’s just you know how in commercials, they tell you t’call a doctor if you have an erection that lasts more than four hours? Swear I’m halfway there, and by the looks of things-.”

“Alright, alright.” Ghost’s smile was warm in his voice, even as he shoved Soap forward towards the steel door. He exaggerated his stumble for effect while Ghost pulled a key fob from the pockets on his sweatpants. “Remember the safeword?”

They checked in with each other often enough for Soap to know what was being asked, and he wasn’t patient enough to let Ghost finish before he was nodding. “‘Yellow’ if I want you to slow down, ‘red’ if I want you to stop what you’re doing now, ‘Minerva’ if I want everything to stop and the scene to end right now.”

Ghost nodded as he pushed the key into the warehouse door. “Good.”

“You know that goes for you too, right?”

Ghost’s head twitched towards him. “Excuse me?”

“If I’m like, leading you into a direction you don’ wannae go. Just ‘cause I’m the one getting kidnapped don’ mean we’re gonna ignore your boundaries.”

In one motion, Ghost twisted the door handle open while reaching out for Soap his free hand. Johnny braced himself to be yanked in, tossed headfirst into whatever his partner had planned. So when Ghost pulled him into a loose hug, all he could do was blink.

“You’re insane.” The soft paper of Ghost’s face mask pressed against his forehead in the facsimile of a kiss. “Off your rocker. Downright looney.”

Soap smiled against Ghost’s Adam’s apple. “Just lookin’ out for my boyfriend, aye?”

Ghost’s arms tightened around him. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I won’ have the heart to do what I planned to you.”

“Thought your heart was cold?”

Again, Ghost pressed him closer. It was tighter than a hug now, a grip that Soap wasn’t sure he could escape if he wanted. Not that he wanted to.

“Ice cold, love.”