Work Text:
Soap wouldn’t say that he was vanilla. He liked being tied up as much as the next guy, and being treated like a dog did something to his brain that he was a little too embarrassed to analyze. Even so, Ghost and Price had him beat on that front by miles. He’ll admit that he remains surprised that Price is just as hopelessly degenerate as Ghost, but he supposed that a man in a position of power like their Captain didn’t come without their quirks. Not to say that he was complaining. Norns, being with those two is the most fun Johnny has had in his life. Still, they never fail to surprise him with their ideas.
Ghost’s arms were warm around him, pressing him tight to the man’s chest with all the force of a beast who had slaughtered countless with them. It was Soap’s favorite place to be, like being cradled in the wings of a valkyrie. The man had been particularly possessive today, snarling and posturing as if he were the mighty Garmr at every unlucky bastard to get near Soap. It had made his duty as a Sargeant incredibly difficult, if he were honest, but he was nothing if not accommodating for his Lieutenant who was less fluent in emotional vulnerability than he was in Scots. So, he didn’t complain about the myriad of marks Ghost was likely leaving on the nape of his neck, if the harsh bites and lewd suckling the man had been doing for the past hour and a half was anything to go by. Supposedly, they were waiting for Price to finish up in some ‘ boring-ass meeting about useless shit that didn’t matter ’ (Ghost’s impatient words, not his). Truthfully he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand the rigid line of his Lieutenant’s hard cock pressed against his ass and the frankly teasing movements of his hands across his chest before he jumped the man. Ghost could have his head, neck and all, if it meant that he could relieve the aching need between his legs.
He startled, hips twitching, as Simon bit down particularly harshly over his trapezius. “ Ghost– ” he whined petulantly, unable to stop the whimper that crawled up his throat as the rough texture of Ghost’s tongue laved over the sore and quickly bruising spot as if in apology. Those deliciously thick arms only squeezed him tighter, closer.
“Wait,” was all his Lieutenant said in response. Bastard.
“Ah dinnae ken ‘ow mooch—” Mercifully, Soap was cut off by the lock twisting and the door swinging open. Price looked a little worse for wear, eyes holding the sort of exhaustion only brought on by the moronic insistence of policies written by those who have never seen a day of combat in their pitiful lives. Soap did not envy their Captain’s position. As soon as the man had re-locked the door behind him, Johnny was reaching out to him. “Price,” he keened, drawing out the i. Their Captain’s shoulders shook and his lips twitched up in a silent laugh. Soap thanks the All-Father every day that Price was far more merciful than Ghost could ever be, for soon his outstretched arms were occupied by the partner they had been missing since the Lieutenant had dragged him to his quarters.
Price’s hands trailed up his sides, rucking his shirt up as they went. “So impatient, John,” the man tsked, but there was no heat in the words, only a fond warmth that he wanted to sink into and live in, take refuge in it, hide from Surtr behind him who was Hel-bent on turning Soap into a begging, needy mess before he even got his clothes off. Johnny didn’t grace his Captain with an answer, merely buried his face in the plush lines of his chest with a huff when those calloused hands drifted to tangle in the soft strands of his warhawk.
Soap relished in the tender moment while it remained, letting his mind drift away from the responsibilities of their daily lives while his commanding officers held him close. Sandwiched between two human furnaces, the only thing keeping him from falling into Nótt’s embrace was the incessant press of his weeping cock against the rough fabric of his cargos. But like the ever-warring feud between the Æsir and Vanir, the peace could not last forever.
“Wanted to ask you sumthin’,” Ghost murmured into the inflamed skin of his neck, lips brushing against his tender flesh lovingly with every word. It was a stark contrast to the assault that the Lieutenant had led previously, but it made Soap shiver all the same. He hummed his acknowledgment. If Ghost had been this worked up about it all day and had waited for Price to join them, he knew that it was serious– that Simon had been considering whatever idea was mulling about in that thick skull of his for a while.
Price picked up the conversation next, gentle and level-toned as ever. “Have you ever heard of sounding?” Soap would admit that the term seemed familiar, but he was drawing blanks on an explanation. He shook his head, sighing as the almost menthol-like scent of Price’s new deodorant invaded his senses at the movement. “Figured,” Price chuckled. There was no judgment in his tone, only that tender fondness that often wormed its way into the Captain’s words. Soap thinks that he liked that the most about him. He never felt inadequate around Price, never lesser, never stupid. It was never a battle of wits, he was never Vafþrúðnir vying to solve Óðinn’s impossible riddle, never put on a pedestal of shame.
“Wanna show you,” Ghost whispered. He punctuated the sentence with a slow roll of his hips, and Soap groaned lowly at the sensation. “You’d look so good, Johnny, fuck—”
“Slow, Simon,” Price ordered, those thick fingers finally stopping their caressing of his scalp. He whined his displeasure at the loss, but he only received a soft kiss on the top of his head in response. “This is new. We take this slow.” Ghost grumbled, but he did not disagree. The Lieutenant’s attitude was mainly posturing, as Soap very well knew. Underneath his harsh exterior, he was a bleeding heart, stabbed and scarred too many times to be able to let the act go. They never minded. Their line of work left no one unscathed, and berating Ghost for it would be more than hypocritical. He was open enough with them, anyway. Price just sighed, scratching at Johnny’s scalp one last time before he was shifting away. Soap pouted at the loss of contact, but his interest had been piqued more than he would like to admit.
The thin mattress shifted as Price stood with a muted grunt. Soap tracked his movement across the room, curious about what the second drawer of Ghost’s dresser held in store. The proposition of something new had reignited the fire in his veins, and if they didn’t get a move on soon, he wasn’t sure that he had enough fuel to feed the ravenous lindwyrm of his desire. Price pulled a small black case from the drawer, no larger than the size of an average hardback book. The zipper clinked ominously, but that was nothing compared to the needy whine Simon let slip at the sight of it. He can’t recall ever seeing the man this desperate outside of a post-mission debrief, and it was doing something to the primal part of his brain– something dark and hungry, snarling for it like Geri and Freki. When their Captain returned to their sides, he merely sat rather than letting Soap gather him in his arms again. The expression he wore was undoubtedly serious, but what Johnny would dare to call love softened something in the otherwise harsh lines of his face. Something in the set of his brows, the quirk of his lips.
Price’s hand came to rest tenderly on his jaw, thumb soothing over the stubble there. Soap followed the wordless request for what it was, and sat up, Ghost following with a somewhat displeased grumble at having to peel himself away from Johnny to do so. With a delicate motion, Price unzipped the small case, unfolding it and laying it before Soap. The inside lining was a deep red, almost like that of fresh blood, but that wasn’t what he was focusing on. Held down by little black straps of elastic, were what appeared to be steel rods of increasing thickness. They were slightly curved with rounded ends and shined from how well cared for they clearly were. There were eight total, and if he had to hazard a guess, he’d estimate that they were between seven and ten inches long (though truthfully his perception of space was terrible).
“These,” Price began, fingers gliding along the edge of the case, “are sounding rods.” Their Captain locked eyes with Soap before he continued, making sure that he heard every word that fell from his lips with crystal clarity. “I want to explain to you how these are used with Simon– show you. And if you’re interested…” The man trailed off, but he did not need to utter another syllable. Soap understood. If he was interested, if he liked what he saw, he’d be next. As always, there would also be no judgment if he decided that it wasn’t for him. The promise of getting to watch Ghost fall apart was enticing enough.
“Okay,” he nodded resolutely. With something new, Price never accepted non-verbal answers. If he didn’t get verbal– or signed– confirmation, everything stopped, even if it meant drawing him or Simon from the mindless bliss of submission. As much as he typically complained in the moment, he did appreciate it. That sturdy hand came up to cradle his jaw once more, and Soap leaned into it as his eyes slipped shut. He was graced with the press of lips to his forehead– an unspoken promise that no matter what Johnny chose, this would be good for him. When Price pulled away, he did not pout as he had before, only smiled softly. I’ll be okay, it said. I trust you more than I trust in the will of the Norns.
He shuffled to the foot of the bed, resting lightly on the backs of his heels. He was mesmerized as Simon stripped. It was no show, nothing done slowly or to impress, but that had never changed Soap’s opinion of how beautiful he was. The broad planes of his shoulders, the healthy layer of fat that hid dense muscles. Even the scars that lined his body– thick and thin, pinks and reds and whites– seemed like the work of an artist, the way Ghost wore them. His hands clenched on his knees as Simon finally shed his pants, the bastard apparently having gone commando all day. And wasn’t that a thought, knowing that his Lieutenant had only been separated from him by a few measly layers of clothing, pressed close and aching for it as he unnecessarily staked his claim around others. Simon’s cock was thick and long, framed by a bush of ginger curls that Soap longed to bury his nose in. As the man settled back against Price’s chest– who had retrieved a bottle of lube from the bedside table, in the meantime– Johnny watched as a bead of precum slicked the ruddy head further. The slight shake to Ghost’s thighs, the flush that painted his cheeks and his chest, was a glimpse into Niðafjǫll– good and virtuous and golden. A sin maybe, but Soap had never felt more blessed.
“Come closer, John,” Price beckoned him with a slight huff of laughter. He was busy pulling a rod from the case– the fifth one from the left, a solid middle ground in terms of girth. Soap shuffled forward eagerly, coming to rest between Ghost’s spread thighs. He was close enough to touch, to feel the heat radiating from the Lieutenant’s skin. Johnny had never been one for poetry, but fuck if he didn’t want to sip of Kvasir’s blood and wax to his heart’s content about the view before him. Silently, Price coated the steel rod in his grip with a generous amount of lube, spreading what dripped onto his fingers over the weeping slit of Ghost’s cock. “Watch closely,” the Captain hummed, mouth brushing over the shell of Simon’s ear. It was mainly for effect, as there was no way that Soap could look away , but the shiver it drew from the Lieutenant was delightful.
Price took Simon’s length in his free hand, fingers delicately placed over the heated flesh as support. That slicked rod was brought just above the tip of Ghost’s cock, and suddenly Soap understood just what sounding was. “Oh,” he gasped as Price slid a rounded end into Simon. The keen that the Lieutenant let out was nothing sort of pornographic. Soap was entranced, wholly and completely, with the way that the cold steel was fed into the slit of Ghost’s length. Nothing in all Nine Realms could tear his eyes away, have his ears focus on anything other than the choked whimpers that filled the air between them. He would gladly let that mistletoe spear pierce him if it meant that this would be the last thing he ever saw. Þǫkk would not be asked to weep, for he would never send Hermóðr to beg Hel for his return. He would die a happy man, here and now.
Simon was trembling, hands squeezing Price’s clothed thighs hard enough that Soap knew there would be dark bruises left in their wake, by the time that rod had sunk in as far as it was going to. “It’s more intense than just a handjob,” Price said, voice level and seemingly disinterested, as if this were just another tactical briefing with loyal soldiers. “Not only is it a rather, ah, interesting feeling–” Soap was inclined to believe that that was quite the understatement, “–it allows for direct prostate stimulation.” As if to prove his point, Price shifted the rod still clutched between his fingers, pulling it up ever so slightly. Ghost wailed, throwing his head back over the Captain’s shoulder, and the only thing keeping his legs from snapping shut was Soap’s presence between them. “Of course, we wouldn’t start you off with one this big, but Simon has been doing this for a while. He can take all of them, with a little effort.” Fuck, if that wasn’t a vision, imagining Ghost’s cock stretched out around the thickest rod in that damned case. He wondered if the Lieutenant would cry. He would certainly like to find out.
“Does the stretch feel good?” Soap found himself asking tentatively. His hands drifted until they were on Simon’s knees, keeping them spread for their Captain.
“Simon certainly seems to think so,” Price chuckled. It was overwhelmingly fond, a welcome contrast to the previous even tone he had used. The man hummed as he slowly brought the rod out, Ghost squirming all the while. Watching it drop back down was somehow more enticing the second time around. If he could marry the feeling that watching Ghost whimper and moan left him with, he would gladly steal Mjǫllnir to make it happen. It was fiery, hot and humid and hungry, deep in his gut, settling like a bonfire somewhere behind his navel.
Price glided that steel rod in and out of Simon’s weeping cock as easily as he breathed, slow and methodical and perfect. He could feel the muscles of Ghost’s thighs jump and flex under his hands with each downward stroke of it, pressing against his prostate and shooting sparks of pleasure through him. If it was anything akin to how Price fingered Johnny with pinpoint precision, it was a miracle that the man was still conscious. It wasn’t until Ghost’s unintelligible babbles turned into increasingly higher octaves of ‘Daddy’ that their Captain took mercy on him and removed the rod. Those calloused fingers instead wrapped around the ruddy head of Ghost’s twitching need, and with a few quick strokes, Simon was gone. He came with a broken sob, hips canting into Price’s hand, spend coating his own abdomen and their Captain’s fist. Soap can’t recall seeing anything more attractive in his life.
“Fuck, Sir,” he mewled. His hands drifted from Simon’s thighs to wrap around Price’s wrist, dragging those fingers to his lips so that he could lick his Lieutenant’s cum off of them. Price just watched him with clear amusement dancing in his gaze, his other hand soothing over Ghost’s side as he came down from his high. It wasn’t long, however, until Ghost was shooting up, knocking Price’s hand aside to draw him into a bruising kiss. Simon licked into his mouth like a man starved, clashing teeth and tongue, and damn near fucking his throat with it. He didn’t fight when those battle-hardened hands gripped his waist and dragged him into his lap, straddling Simon’s thighs and inevitably crushing Price against the headboard. Drool leaked from the corner of his lips, and he whined when the Captain’s calloused thumb wiped it away as it slid down his adam’s apple. Here at their mercy was the only hǫrgr he ever wished to worship at.
“That’s enough, Simon,” Price rasped, laughter infecting his tone. Ghost pulled away with a disgruntled groan, a trail of saliva connecting them even after they parted. “You still up to showing our boy a good time?”
The words had Simon groaning all over again, decidedly debauched rather than annoyed, this time around. “You up for it, puppy?” Staring into Ghost’s eyes was like being consumed by the fires of Múspellsheimr when he was as worked up as they were, and now was no different. The embers in his gaze were hotter than the ones burning in Soap’s gut. He would freely glide into that pyre as Þjazi did, if they would let him. “Promise you’ll love it.”
“Please, Sir,” he begged, chasing Ghost’s lips only for the man to dance out of reach with a grin that was full of far too many teeth to be considered anything other than feral – Fenrir’s vicious snarl before he got his first taste of blood.
“If you two would let me up, we could actually get somewhere.” Price’s voice was stern but undoubtedly light. He was a patient man– on a level that Johnny would never be able to understand– and was far too used to their antics.
Soap, under no circumstances, will admit to the squeal that left his mouth as he was suddenly hoisted into the air, Simon’s hands on his ass keeping him up. On instinct, he wrapped his legs around the man’s waist, hands clutching desperately around his neck in fear of falling. Ghost just laughed, forever taking far too much joy in the distress he put him under, in Soap’s opinion. “I’ve got you, Johnny,” Ghost crooned mockingly as he was walked over to and set upon the man’s dresser. This time, Soap knew what was in the drawer that the Lieutenant was digging around in. Without much fanfare, Simon pulled a thick leather collar with a soft felt lining from between neatly folded balaclavas. It had a sturdy metal loop in the center, meant for a leash that Ghost had never shown much interest in. The man preferred, by far, to tug on the loop with his hands to pull Soap whichever way he so desired. Simon met his eyes, those stone blue pools playful but soft– open to Johnny’s choice, however he may feel tonight. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he smiled, drawing Ghost into an actual kiss– no battle of teeth and tongues to be found, just the soft caress of lips against his own. He would freely admit that he rather enjoyed the feeling of the collar around his neck, for a myriad of reasons, other than that he liked being a mindless pup for his masters. It was grounding, it kept him present enough to be mindful of what was happening, of what he wanted, of what was desired of him. Yet, it allowed him to let go enough to stop thinking. Collared, there was no need to cling to the false idols of pride and dignity, because he was already chained to the only figures of worship he ever needed to show his devotion to. Ghost clicking the collar into place around his neck was the signing of a contract, the noose of sacrifice, to be allowed to glimpse the meaning of true freedom.
He was slightly taller than Ghost, sat on the dresser as he now was, and he took great enjoyment in that fact as the Lieutenant stared at the collar pulled taut around his neck in reverence. His mouth was slightly agape, eyes dark and hungry, and Soap loved it. “Gotta get you some ears and a proper tail, one o’ these days,” Simon groaned, burying his face in the crook of Johnny’s neck.
“Oh yeah?” He laughed, hands coming up to cradle Simon’s head close, fingers carding through sweat-slick red-gold locks, tousling them like wind through Glasir. “Think ah’d look good awn mah knees for ye? Waggin’ mah tail, lappin’ at yer cock like a proper mutt?”
“Give ‘em a break, John,” Price sighed fondly from the bed, where he was busy wiping down the rod he had used on Ghost. Soap could only treat their Captain to a smug grin. He relished in being a brat, egging Ghost on, knowing damn well it’d be at least another half-hour before he could get it up again. Granted, that hadn’t stopped Soap before. He knew exactly what spots to press that would have his Lieutenant begging, whimpering and moaning and cumming limp.
Now wasn’t the time for that, though.
“Sorry, Daddy.”
“You’re not,” Price shook his head.
“Never is,” Ghost complained, words muffled by his position still pressed close to Soap’s skin. He startled at the feeling of teeth digging into his flesh once more, marking him with what would be a dark bruise come morning. Soap prided himself in the fact that he only grumbled a little as Simon lifted him into his arms again. “Brat.”
“Hmm,” he grinned, kissing up the right side of Ghost’s face while the man did his best to bring them both back to the bed in one piece– no help from Soap, of course. “Gonnae ‘ave tae muzzle me, Sir.” He was unceremoniously tossed onto the thin mattress, nearly knocking the air from his lungs. Simon’s hands were on him in seconds, the speed at which he moved putting Sleipnir to shame without a doubt. Stocky fingers deftly undid his belt and popped the button of his cargos. The Lieutenant didn’t bother with unzipping them, however, merely tugging the denim down his legs, boxers and all.
“Fucking mutt ,” Ghost snarled as he tugged his shirt up to rest above the swell of his chest. Simon bit down hard, just to the left of Soap’s right nipple, and he whined, hips bucking up in a fruitless search for friction. Riled up as he was, Ghost would offer no bowl. That task would fall to Price. Ghost slipped the shirt off of him fully afterward, hands palming at his chest and shoulders as if he were seeing him for the first time. Johnny tried to draw the man closer, ankles locked at the small of his back, but his efforts were for naught. Simon could not be moved if he did not wish it so.
Beside them, he heard Price sigh. “Up against the headboard, Simon. I want his legs spread.” Like a switch had been flipped, those searching hands instead slipped under his back, drawing him snug against Ghost’s chest for the umpteenth time that night. He was beginning to wonder if Simon got off on the feeling of carrying Johnny, having him at the Lieutenant’s mercy, completely encased. Ghost was incredibly possessive, and he knows that if the bastard could, he would bind Soap and Price to him with his own entrails. Simon settled down against the cold iron of the headboard, the only mercy between him and metal digging into his back a flimsy excuse for a pillow. He moved Soap like a doll, pinning his back flush to the man’s chest with a single hand on his abdomen. His legs were wrenched open with the other, Ghost’s ankles hooking behind his own and removing Johnny’s ability to close them if he wanted to. He would complain about being treated like an object if he wasn’t so into it. But Jesus wept, the way Ghost manhandled him with ease did something to him.
Price settled in front of them, almost mirroring Johnny’s previous position. That case was laid out in front of him, and the Captain’s hands came up to rest almost soothingly on his knees. Those piercing pools of blue demanded his full attention, and Soap was happy to comply. “I’m going to use the second rod, okay?” He nodded, letting that gruff voice wash over him and ease his high-strung nerves. Price could tame the brat in him in a way that Simon had never quite managed. He was their Iðavǫllr, for a reason. The sturdy foundation in which they could meet as one, and thrive. “I know it isn’t the smallest, but because this is your first time, it will be safer. Is that alright with you?”
“Yes, Daddy,” he squeezed out, a small part of him wishing that the man would accept a nod instead. But, this was new. New and different and Norns how Soap wanted it, as much as the idea ignited his nerves.
“Tell us if you need to stop or slow down– any time,” Ghost rumbled into his ear, practically nuzzling the side of his head.
“Yes, Sir,” he squeaked. Price was slicking up the rod, now, the case having been shut and set aside. He was just as methodical as he had been with Ghost, the ease of expertise lining his movements. Soap twitched at the feeling of the excess lube being spread over his weeping slit, the cold liquid a sudden jolt of stimulation after so long deprived. It was when Price had positioned that steel rod over his cock, fingers gently holding the heated flesh steady, that Soap realized that he really did not want to watch it. He felt squeamish, as if he were getting blood drawn and not his dick fucked. Much like the needle, he was fine with the idea of it, but seeing it dip into his skin made something jump in his belly, twisting and coiling like Jǫrmungandr below his navel.
He turned his head to the right, eyes screwed shut tightly against Ghost’s neck. Simon cooed, allowing him to hide away just this once, and slipped a hand into the back of his warhawk. “Deep breath, Johnny.” The rod was cold as it breached him. It was not an unpleasant feeling, necessarily, but it was foreign and vaguely uncomfortable, and he could not stop his hips from squirming. Ghost held him still enough so that Price was not inhibited, but hushed his worries with whispered praises all the same. “Doing so good for us, puppy. Almost there.” Soap almost thought that he wouldn’t make it, that he’d have to call it quits, just before the rod had sunk in and Price stilled his hands. The feeling of something being inside his cock and not the warmth of a hand around it was, as their Captain had stated beforehand, far more intense. They let him adjust to the feeling and slow his ragged breaths in silence. He appreciated it, despite not being able to vocalize as much. He didn’t even realize he was whimpering like an injured pup before Ghost was thumbing at the edges of his collar, more murmured assurances leaving his lips.
After a long few minutes in which Soap did his best to let the tension that lapped at him like Ægir’s daughters flow away, Price spoke up once more. “I’m going to move now. Can you remind me what our safeword is, sweetheart?”
Johnny whined, but complied, hands desperately grasping at the one Simon had fanned against his sternum. “Red.”
“And if you can’t speak?” He tapped three times on the back of Ghost’s hand. “Good boy. Deep breath.”
With that, Price began to slide the rod out, the slight curve to it pressing so perfectly against his prostate. It had sparks dancing behind his eyes, bright as the ones that flew from the forge of the Ívaldasynir. It also tore a sob from his throat, for the sensation of cool metal sliding across perhaps the most sensitive point in his body was immeasurably more fervent than the cruel insistence of fingers or a cock spreading him open for use. The glide was slow and steady, just as it had been for Simon, and if Soap was falling apart at this, he wasn’t sure how he could ever take a girthier one. When Price snaked that rod back down, he wailed. He fought desperately against Ghost’s hold on his legs, knees trying to lock together as every nerve in his lower half was activated in waves of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. He was fighting his own mind, trying urgently to fight the crawl of static in his brain, to stay present and not lose himself to the sensation of it all. This was new, and Daddy and Sir wanted him to stay aware. He wanted to be good. He knew he was a brat but he wanted to be such a good puppy for them, and yet—
“Tell us what you need, love,” Simon murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear. Ghost’s hand that had been thumbing at his collar now rested flat against the front of his throat, not applying any pressure, but acting as a grounding stimulus for Soap to focus on. He pressed up into it, begging without words for the Lieutenant to take control, to grab his reigns and slaughter him like Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr, and birth him anew– make him mindless and pliant and able to truly enjoy the pleasure-pain like he so greatly wanted to. Mercifully, beautifully, Simon understood. “Price, a moment.” The Captain paused his ministrations immediately, rod withdrawn, and Johnny could feel that piercing gaze on him like a hawk, analyzing his every minute shift like Huginn and Muninn waiting patiently for something to report. In truth, Soap wasn’t sure if he was grateful or disappointed that that sinful torture had ceased.
Soon enough, Ghost’s firm hand was sliding away from the bobbing muscle of his throat, and Price’s calloused ones were cupping his jaw, guiding his head to face him. “There you are, my sweet boy,” the man cooed, all sugar and honey– mellifluous. There was a time and place for indifference, for cruelty, but tonight, wrapped up in each other in the Lieutenant’s secluded quarters, was not that. “What do you need from us? What can Daddy do to help?” He cried weakly, all that he wanted to say trapped in his mind in a violent swirl, unable to escape, stuck on the tip of his tongue.
“Johnny needs to drift,” Simon spoke up for him. “Think he’s focusing on too much at once…”
Price looked at him for a long while, studying the desperate expression Soap was sure that he was wearing, tears a steady stream down his flushed cheeks. “Wan’ it,” he tried to reassure the man, mouth still lagging far behind his racing brain. The Captain did not seem completely satisfied with that answer, but it was enough for him to relent.
“Alright,” he sighed, shoulders drooping with a sudden release of tension. “But we do this properly. If I think for a moment that you’re too far gone…” Price did not have to finish that statement. The threat was clear enough. If Soap tumbled over the edge of blissful submission into the mindless heat of giving himself over, unaware of his own desires, everything stopped. On a typical night, when Johnny was safe to fall off that cliff, knowing that he could consent to everything that would occur beforehand, it wasn’t a problem. But this was new, and Price was giving him more than he should, with this.
“Thank ye,” he sniffled, leaning heavily into the hands on his face, trusting in them to keep him upright. “Thank ye, Daddy. Tha—”
“Shhh,” Ghost soothed. “We’ve got you, puppy. You’re safe here.” Instead of pinning him close, his hands now wandered, drifting up and down his flanks listlessly, as if he were soothing a wild animal. Soap sank back into it, closing his eyes as Price littered his face with soft kisses. He was safe here, okay to let go. To hand over his reigns. Look into Gnipahellir’s dark depths and remain unafraid of the chains that bound him. This time, he did not fight the static that wanted to invade his brain, and merely let it wash over him. He could have this. Have Simon and Price and the pleasure they brought. He did not have to fight it all, be a servant to his own mind’s machinations. Not when his masters had him. When he was their dumb puppy. Fear and despair were not emotions he needed, at their mercy. He was a loyal devotee, and though this bed was not the hǫrgr he wished it were, it was damn good enough.
He still sniffled, still whined and whimpered and mewled, but falling back into their warm embrace meant that when that freshly slicked rod slid back into his weeping length, he could appreciate the feeling for what it was. Could learn to love the burn, the tremors it sent through his spine as it grazed his prostate, over and over in a relentless back-and-forth, filled again and again and yet practically never touched. It was fire and ice, rime into a new beginning. It was pleasure and pain that made his toes curl, his fingers dig crescents into the thick skin of Simon’s wrist. That had him keening and moaning useless, unintelligible phrases, mind blank except for the feeling of Ghost and Price and that thrice-damned rod, set to bring him to the edge and back again relentlessly.
His own climax snuck up on him, so lost in the embers burning in his gut that the sudden snap of that knot was a surprise. Price was ready, though, sliding that warmed steel out moments before he was trembling and twitching, painting the Captain’s hand a pearly white with choked sobs. He clung to Simon as Price wiped him down and tucked away their mess to deal with later. Let himself shake apart in his embrace like the earthquakes before Ragnarǫk. And when Price joined them, a heavy weight at his back, a reassurance that they had him from every angle, he finally let wandering hands unfurl the strain that had coiled in his muscles. There were times that he despised himself for being so sensitive, for his low stamina, but here in the hazy warmth of being theirs, he had a sort of awed appreciation for it. For Simon and Price, who let him glimpse the grand halls of the afterlife with open arms and enthusiasm.