Work Text:
If you don't like sunny days
Then I'll make it rain
Make a bird sing
Any song you wanna hear it sing
Fix all your broken things
If I was the devil
Soap opened his eyes, blinked and squinted at the streetlight shining through the cheap hotel curtains, and rolled himself over before trying again. The room didn’t ever really get dark, just a deep, muted grey, and the sounds of the city outside filtered in with the light. Soap had slept in worse.
On the other side of the room, perched on the end of his bed and leaning back on one hand, was Ghost.
As his foggy brain came back online, Soap gave himself a few seconds of silence just to watch him. It had been gratifying, as far as these things went, to find out that he didn’t sleep in the mask - at least not with just Soap there. It was still incongruous, though, to see that bare face, to be given tacit permission to run his gaze over the broad cheekbones, the strong jaw. More scandalous, somehow, than even seeing him shirtless for bed, dressed in nothing but his briefs, with that long body stretched out, feet almost knocking against the ratty tv stand, heavy muscles draped in the shadows of the room.
Okay. The body was pretty scandalous, too.
Ghost had been looking at his phone, but when Soap stayed silent for a beat too long he sighed, tilted his head without looking over. “Johnny.”
“Mmm.” Soap stretched, pushing his toes through the warm sheets, pushing his arms up into the air with a soft groan, and then sat up, oddly self conscious about the fall of sheets around his waist. He preferred to sleep naked, in deference to Ghost he was also wearing briefs - it didn’t feel like it was enough, suddenly. But he pushed aside the vaguely absurd desire to cover up, and slipped out of bed instead.
“Can’t sleep.”
It wasn’t really a question, but Ghost nodded anyway, and then shrugged. He finally looked at Soap as Soap came to sit next to him, and Soap gave a grimace of what he hoped looked like sympathy. The clock radio said it was 3:34am, which meant Soap had gotten a few hours, at least. More than Ghost.
“Pain in the arse, eh,” he said softly, wincingly aware of the sleep-rough rasp of his own voice. He coughed, thought idly about getting up for a drink and a piss. If allowed, his body would probably flop directly backwards onto Ghost’s bed and fall straight back asleep. Odds were probably even on Ghost letting him stay there or rolling him onto the floor.
Ghost took a deep breath, and let his phone drop to the bed between them. “You should get some more sleep,” he said, but it didn’t sound very convincing, and it was Soap’s turn to shrug.
“Awake now.”
Ghost let it go.
For a moment, Soap let the silence sink in. Let himself shift his gaze slightly to the side and rest on Ghost’s thick thigh, fat with the softness of his relaxed muscle, lightly dusted with fine blond hairs. He wanted to sweep the tips of his fingers delicately over those hairs, see if they were as downy as they looked. Wanted to see the way Ghost’s muscles would twitch at the sensation, wanted to see if he’d shy away or press into the touch. Wanted to know if he’d like it.
Would probably end up with a knife in his gut, but at this point, Soap thought it was probably worth it. For one touch, it might be worth it.
Instead, he leaned back on his own hands, mirroring Ghost’s position, and blinked up at the ceiling. “Sleep like shite too,” he offered. “All my life, actually. Fuckin recruit school almost beat it out of me, but still.”
“I know,” Gost said. “Hear you tossin’ and turnin’ sometimes.”
It made something a little weak and pathetic light up in Soap’s chest to know Ghost had noticed, was thinking about him. Shut it, ya bawbag, he told himself sternly. Means fuck all.
Stupid to think of what he wanted it to mean.
He opened his mouth, and made it stupider.
“Could come and put me to sleep whenever,” he murmured, and Ghost snorted.
“Easier ways to go about it, if you’ve got a death wish,” he said, and Soap rolled his eyes. He flirted. Sometimes Ghost flirted back, sometimes he ignored him, sometimes he threatened his life. And so it went.
“Gotta have a death wish, to be in this line of work,” he shot back, and regretted it immediately as Ghost’s eyes turned inward, went sad. Soap would wear a mask too, if he was that expressive, if he wore every change of emotion so openly on his face. It was beautiful, and it was terrifying, to be that vulnerable.
Ghost was awake because he was sad. Ghost, Soap had realised over the last few months working with him, was a sad soul. He hid it with masks and anger and confidence, sometimes with bad jokes and worse flirtation, but that essential sadness ran through the core of him, kept him up at night, kept him alone.
Soap wanted to take Ghost’s own knives and carve it out of him, would paint them both in blood if it meant that he could save Ghost from the thing inside of his chest that caused him so much pain. Would offer himself up instead if he needed to.
Had, if he was honest. Or, had tried. Maybe one day he’d figure out how to do it properly.
“I count,” he blurted out, and the sadness was, for a moment, replaced with confusion.
“What?”
Soap shook his head at himself. “When I can't sleep? If it gets really bad so like - like, when my head doesn’t shut up and my thoughts just keep racing around, I count.” He snuck a look at Ghost’s face, found it open and patient, and went on. “Sometimes I just pick an arbitrary number and say, like, I’m gonna count to six hundred, and I’ll fall asleep before I get there. Like I’m daring myself. Or, or I just count backwards from like, ten thousand. Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine. Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety eight. Nine thousand nine hundred and-”
“Yeah, okay,” Ghost laughed. “I get it, Christ.”
“And ninety seven,” Soap said over the top of him, and laughed back. “Sounds daft, aye? It just…gives my brain something to do, if it has to be doing something. Stops it from being a stupid fuck all night.”
Ghost nodded. He didn’t look convinced, but he wasn’t arguing, and that made a certain tenseness in Soap’s gut ease. He knew that Ghost had problems that fucking counting backwards from ten thousand weren’t gonna fix, but it felt good to be able to offer support, and not be rebuffed.
Soap sighed, and hung his head back, loose between his shoulders, eyes closed. The room was warm, and Ghost, beside him, was warmer, heat coming off that big body in waves. Soap should get up and go back to his own bed, leave him to his brooding and count himself back to sleep. Like a kid at a sleepover, he didn’t want to. Wanted to stay up for as long as possible, didn’t want to leave Ghost awake by himself.
“Hey Johnny.”
“Mmm.”
“How do you make a pool table laugh?”
Soap sighed again. This had. This had actually been his eighty seven year old gradda’s favourite joke.
“Have mercy, Simon.”
“You just slip your fingers in its pocket,” Ghost said, “And you tickle its balls.”
“Ah, fuck.” Soap gave in to the temptation to collapse backwards onto the bed, hands covering his face as he shook with mirth. It was so fucking bad.
Ghost hummed with satisfaction, pleased as punch, and Soap gave himself permission to reach out and slap him lightly on the side. Ghost’s back, from this angle, was like a brick wall. He noticed a few scars, lit up oddly by the flickering half light of the room, that he’d never paid attention to before. Burn marks. Bullet wounds. His skin, against Soap’s rough knuckles, was softer than he’d been expecting, and Soap quickly let his hand drop.
“Tell that one to Laswell, then,” he said, trying to pull himself together.
“You’re the one with a death wish, not me,” Ghost fucking lied, and Soap made himself chuckle.
“She’s heard worse.”
“Not from me.”
“Yeah? You keep that filthy mouth in check around the boss, Simon?”
Ghost twisted around to look at him. Soap tried to keep his eyes on his face, ignore all the interesting things that twist did to the muscle in his side and back.
“You think my mouth is filthy, Johnny?”
Jesus bleedin’ fuckin’ Christ.
“You know you have a filthy mouth, Lt.” Soap propped himself up on his elbows. Wondered what Ghost was seeing, if he was bothering to see it. Soap in his bed, laid out in blatant fucking invitation, in nothing but his briefs and a prayer. Hair a fucking mess, probably, eyes still sleepy, rumpled and useless looking.
Jesus, Soap would hit on himself, if he could.
Ghost’s eyes, maybe, flickered. Darted up and down Soap’s body, assessing, and Soap bit his lip. He didn’t have a death wish. They were still in the realms of banter. Middle of the night underwear party banter. It was fine.
“Maybe I do,” Ghost said, and his voice was low, deep. A fucking mountain lion perching on the end of the bed couldn’t have sounded more dangerous. “Haven’t had any complaints about it.”
Soap let out a huff of irritation. This was stupid. They were grown men.
“Jesus, Simon, when are you going to just fuck me?”
Ghost’s eyes went wide, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline,and half a second later, Soap’s brain caught up to his mouth.
About to get gutted, he thought dreamily, almost in slow motion. Ah well. Been a good run.
“Come again?”
“Ah.” Soap stayed still, like Ghost really was a mountain lion, or a bear. Some fucking thing. No fast movements. “I mean. I only meant. I mean, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No,” Ghost turned fully and leaned in as Soap tried to sit up and slip away. One huge hand came down on Soap’s chest, pinning him to the bed. “Fucking say it, Johnny.”
Soap licked his lips and watched as Ghost carefully straddled his hips, crouching over him like he was about to go in for the kill. It was so fucking hot Soap almost couldn’t breathe. If he was about to die, it was honestly the best way he could think of to go.
Just make it quick, he thought. Or don’t. Just do whatever.
“I said, when are you going to fuck me, Simon?”
“Yeah?”
Those dark eyes were glinting. Ghost had a way of smiling, Soap now knew, that was just a twist of his full lips, almost a pout. It made him look mean, and Soap loved it. He’d learned to recognise the look through the mask, got himself off, sometimes, thinking about how often it was directed at him.
“Yeah.”
“You wanna fuck?”
At least he doesn’t look sad anymore, Soap thought deliriously. He circled his hand around Ghost’s wrist, slid it up that fucking iron band of an arm that was still pinning him to the bed, up over his wretched tattoos and all that muscle, up over the impossible stretch of his shoulder, the ling line of his neck. Ghost’s skin twitched under his a few times, like a horse, and Soap rubbed a soothing, absent thumb into the meat of his traps before pushing his fingers up into the back of his dirty ginger-blond hair.
“Aye, ya fuckin’ daft cunt,” he said fondly, made himself extra Scottish to remind Ghost what he was getting into. “Can’t spell it out any clearer.”
Ghost closed his eyes for just a moment, and when he opened them, they were determined. Almost vicious.
“All right,” he breathed. “Fuck. C’mere, then,” but he came to Soap, dipped down and took Soap’s mouth, no more hesitation, no more playing. Cupped Soap’s jaw and kissed him, those fat lips sliding over Soap’s with a confidence that verged on demanding. Soap groaned into it before he could stop himself, didn’t want to stop himself, and Ghost took it for the encouragement that it was and licked into his mouth, sucked on his bottom lip, groaned back at him. He tasted like the remnants of toothpaste and pink Powerade, and Soap, if he’d had any working thoughts left in his head, would be charmed by it. By the surprising sweetness of him.
Instead of thinking, though, he just lay back and let himself be kissed. Let Ghost sink all that heavy, delicious weight down on him and cradle his face in both huge hands and kiss the life out of him. Soap hooked a thigh around Ghost’s waist and lazily tugged him in, encouraged a deep, slow grind that reminded them both that they were almost naked. It was like he was hard before he even realised it, before it was a thought in his mind, and Ghost made that satisfied little hum again when he noticed.
“You like this?” he asked, and the look on his face told Soap that he didn’t need an answer, just wanted to hear it. “Tell me, Johnny.”
Soap pushed his hips up harder, rubbed the hard length of himself into Ghost’s thigh. “Yeah I like it,” he said. “Jesus, Simon.”
“Mmm.” Like he couldn't stay away, Ghost ducked back down to kiss him again, smeared his lips over Soap’s mouth, his cheek, nipped up his jawline to his ear. “What else do you like?”
I’ll like whatever you do to me, Soap thought, and had just enough brain cells not to say. I’d take anything, do anything, just as long as you’re touching me.
Just as long as you’re looking at me.
Instead of serving up his heart on a platter though, he reached up and grabbed Ghost’s hand, pressed a kiss to it, and then slid it down between their bodies, between his own spread legs, past his cock, past his balls. Pressed two of Ghost’s fingers up against his arse through his briefs.
“I like getting fucked,” he breathed, and let Ghost take over, rubbing at him through the slightly damp cloth, just a little too hard. It sent shivers dancing across Soap’s skin, made his thighs tremble and twitch.
“You’re a fucking dream, Johnny,” Ghost breathed back, and Soap blinked up at him, wet mouth hanging open. He lay there, stunned, and let himself be groped, let Ghost cup his balls, tug at them slightly, let his briefs get pushed to the side so Ghost could touch him.
You’re a dream.
“Simon,” he whispered. “Please-”
“What are you so sweet for, huh?” Ghost kissed him again, rough and too quick, and then kneeled up, hands strong and confident on Soap’s legs as he moved him around, pulling down his briefs and tossing them away. “When’d you get so sweet, Johnny?”
No one had ever called Soap sweet in his life.
“Must just be for you, Lt,” he managed, and Ghost’s eyes flashed.
“Christ, don’t call me that,” he said, the growl back in his voice. “Could lock me up for this, you know.”
“You’d get out,” Soap said, and Ghost laughed. “Better make it worth it,” Soap added, and half sat up to get his hands, finally, on all that skin. Smoothed his palms up Ghost’s sides, around to the layer of softness that covered his abs, loving the thickness. Slid up to Ghost’s pecs, heavy with muscle, nipples that Soap could tell were softly pink even in the half light. Ghost watched with half lidded eyes, head tilted back a little so he could look down his nose like the absolute prick he was, and Soap was more turned on than he’d ever been in his life.
Yeah, let me worship you.
Eventually, he let his hands drift to Ghost’s hips and slipped his thumbs under the waistband of Ghost’s underwear. His cock was as heavy as the rest of him, and leaking a little patch of precome. Soap’s mouth watered, and he looked up, met that hot gaze as he urged Ghost up enough that he could get his lips to it, wrapping them around the fat head and sucking the taste of salt out of the cloth.
“Still sweet?” he asked, and smiled a little as he mouthed down the shaft, cotton and musk thick in his mouth.
“You’ve got no idea,” Ghost ground out, and then he was shoving Soap back down, kicking out of his underwear and slotting himself back over Soap’s body. Christ he was big, all of him, and that huge cock pushing needily between Soap’s legs, up between his arse cheeks, was making his stomach lurch and his balls tighten. He wanted that inside of him.
They probably didn’t have condoms, let alone lube - Soap sure as fuck didn’t. Even his hubris didn’t extend that far, though who the fuck knew with Ghost, the cocky shite. But Soap was willing to take it fucking raw, if he had to, would deal with the consequences of Gaz and Price watching him walk funny in the morning. Fuck. They were rutting against each other like animals, or maybe dry humping like teenagers, grasping, greedy fingers digging bruises into skin, precome smearing across their thighs and bellies. It was already dirty, rough, it’d just get worse if they actually fucked. Soap thought idly for a minute about how he still needed to piss, that if he’d been given a moment to think he would have disappeared into the bathroom for five minutes to deal with some things.
But he didn’t care, and Ghost didn’t either. The quick showers they taken when they’d hit the hotel would have to be enough, the cheap soap barely making a dent in what had been a week’s worth of missions. It was enough, it didn’t matter, Soap would have taken Ghost fresh from the field with blood dripping down his mask and etched into his fingernails, if he’d had to. Would bury his face in the deepest,most secret parts of him, would take his very essence into his body, if he -
“Hey, Johnny,” the lightest pat to the side of his face brought him back to himself, and Soap realised he’d been half drifting, panting into Ghost’s shoulder while he steadily pumped up, grinding his dick into Ghost’s quad. Another few breathes and it would have been over for him before it’d even begun - not that he wouldn’t have let Ghost keep going, keep taking what he needed.
Ahh, he was so fucked.
“I’m good,” he said, and buried his face in Ghost’s neck, took a deep breath. “Fuck, I want you inside me though, Simon.”
Ghost let out a long, low groan, and let his cock catch in the softness between Soap’s legs, that big, blunt head bumping against his hole and sliding away.
“How bad you want it, baby?” Ghost asked, and Soap almost choked on his own spit. Baby. Oh, never stop calling me that.
“Was thinking about taking you dry,” he admitted in a shaky voice. “If I had to.”
Ghost propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at him with dark, wild eyes. “Not tonight,” he said, a low promise. “Wait. Wait right fucking here.”
And with effort, he pulled himself up, one hand cupped around that fucking battering ram he called a dick, and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Soap a sweaty, gasping mess on the bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if pinching himself would be enough, if this was a dream, he didn’t want to wake from it anyway.
Ghost didn’t give him time to drift again, or spiral, was back in an instant with a little bottle of hotel lotion, shrugging as it hit the mattress and bounced against Soap’s shoulder.
“You want it that bad?” he asked, and then gave a soft laugh of disbelief, because Soap was already flicking open the lid, squeezing the contents out over his trembling fingers. It was shite, but it was better than nothing. And better than getting nothing.
“Here, baby,” Ghost said, and positioned himself between Soap’s legs. In a second, they were both messy, fingers covered in lavender scented lotion and slipping against each other as they worked Soap open. He didn’t bother being self conscious, not with Ghost hoisting his thigh up and licking at the inside of it, not with Ghost’s eyes fixed on where their fingers were disappearing inside of him. It was quick, but it felt incredible, the way the calluses on Ghost’s fingers caught and scratched against the most sensitive parts of him, and soon Soap realised he was just getting in the way, moved his fingers up to his cock to play with himself while he let Ghost do the work of getting him ready.
“Atta boy,” Ghost said approvingly, when Soap gave up control. “Let’s get you feeling good, eh?”
“Oh, fuck, of course you’d be like this.” Soap closed his eyes, turned his face into the pillow as Ghost snorted above him.
“You’re into it,” Ghost said confidently. “Aren’t you?”
Tell me you like it, you’re into it, you want it. Something about how Ghost demanded Soap be with him every step of the way was lighting him the fuck up. He tensed his thighs, clenched around Ghost’s fingers, two now, hooked deep inside of him.
“I’m into it,” he agreed weakly. “Ghost, Simon, please can you…”
“Shh.” Soap’s muscles strained as Ghost hooked a hand behind his knee, spreading him out. There were a million things they could have organised to make this better, easier, and they didn’t bother with any of them.”You ready?”
“Aye, come on, come on,” and then Ghost was notching his head at Soap’s entrance, rocking his hips a little at a time to force himself in. It was too big, and the lotion wasn’t enough, but Soap arched up into it, gripping at Ghost’s arm with slick, greasy fingers.
“That’s it,” Ghost said, head hanging down to watch himself. “Oh, you’re fucking tight, Johnny, but you can take it for me can’t you?”
He could.
Soap felt his mind wiped clean, felt every nerve in his body set alight, as Ghost fucked into him. His cock would have been too big to be instantly comfortable even with an hour of prep, and this had not been an hour of prep. Soap gasped as he stretched around it, forgot to keep breathing for a moment as Ghost bottomed out. He was still hard, was leaking like a tap all over his fingers and stomach, and the vague, achy pain was just making it worse.
“Fuuuuck,” he groaned. “Simon, you’re a monster.”
“Yeah,” Simon agreed, and held himself still, deep inside Soap’s body. “You’re gonna come on it though.”
The fat cock was one thing, the gorgeous fucking body was another, the beauty of him, his face, those eyes, it all helped, but the confidence of those words, the utter self assurance, had Soap squirting out a fresh drool of precome, his cock jumping.
“God fucking help me, I am,” he whined. “Fuckin’ move then, Simon, keep going, please.”
“Sweet,” Ghost whispered in his ear, and with a soft grunt, he started fucking Soap in earnest.
The city was coming alive outside, the light changing to the soft brightness of an early dawn, and Soap could taste Ghost’s sweat in his mouth. They were tangled in each other, Soap gasping through the intensity of Ghost pressing him down into the mattress, one hand fisted into the short hair at the back of Soap’s head, the other gripping the meat of Soap’s waist as he pulled him down into Ghost’s thrust. Soap simply hung on, wrapped his arms and legs around whatever parts of Ghost he could and let himself take it, cock trapped helplessly between their bodies. Ghost was hitting his prostate like it was being punished, getting deeper than Soap had realised was possible, and yeah, Soap was gonna come on it, was just waiting to get there, trusting Ghost to keep going until he did.
And Ghost, the bastard, the soft fuck, kept whispering in his ear.
“You feel sweet too, baby,” and “I could fuck you for hours if you’d let me,” and, devastatingly, “I knew it’d be good, I fucking knew it.”
“Me too,” Soap confessed, whole body shaking with exhaustion and pleasure. “I thought - thought about it, thought about you-”
“I know,” Ghost soothed, and bit Soap’s jaw gently, like a puppy. “I know you did, baby, the way you look at me? Yeah, I knew all along.”
Soap had to squeeze his eyes closed, God, he was so close, it felt too good and too sore, he couldn’t last.
“Made me so fucking hard,” Ghost added, “When I’d see you staring at me like that. Like all you could think about was my cock.”
“Simon.”
His orgasm was a bolt of slow lightning, shooting through his body while Ghost’s name tingled on his lips like a prayer. Simon, Simon, yeah, Simon…
“Come, come, Johnny,” Ghost chanted back at him, fucking him, impossibly, deeper as Soap’s orgasm stretched out for one long, crackling moment. “Oh fuck I felt that, that was good, huh? Comin’ so good right now, aren’t ya?”
Fuck, if he needed Soap’s heart, he could have it. “I’ve never felt like this in my life,” Soap mumbled, panting hard. “No one has ever made me feel like this, Simon. Never.”
Ghost paused for a moment, eyes closed as Soap twitched around him, and then it was like the lightning had sparked from Soap’s skin to his, jolting him into action. Deeper, deeper, grinding himself into Soap’s lax, tired body in long filthy thrusts until finally he was fucking his own orgasm into Soap arse, burying his come further inside than anyone had ever been. It was like Soap’s very body was being taken over and rewired.
Was like being owned.
“You feel good,” Soap whispered into Ghost’s ear, already anticipating what he’d need. “It’s so good, Simon. It’s so fucking good.”
You’re so good.
They moved to Soap’s bed, after. The sun was up, the city street outside their window alive with early cars and buses, joggers out with their dogs. The room smelled strongly of sex and lavender, and it made Soap laugh, a little. They’d have to keep Gaz out. Have their morning meeting in his and Price’s room. Whatever.
He rolled onto his side, and met Ghost’s eyes. He’d thought they were brown, when they first met, but in the light they were actually a very dark grey, cool and murky. His lashes were almost white, and longer than they looked. There was so much about him that wasn’t what it seemed, and Soap felt like he was uncovering new information every day, new little pieces of the puzzle that was Simon Riley.
“You have freckles,” he said softly, and watched in delight as Ghost’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Even under the mask.”
“Always have,” Ghost sighed, and reached up to a spot over Soap’s cheekbone, brushing his thumb over the beauty mark Soap knew was there, but hardly even noticed any more. “Sometimes,” Ghost murmured, voice low. “I can’t look away from this.”
Oh, fuck.
Soap took a deep breath, and tucked himself into that big body, tilting his head back for another kiss. He wasn’t ever going to get sick of kissing this man. And now he had a secret weapon for when Ghost couldn’t keep the sadness out of his eyes, for when he stayed awake until the wee hours. For when the vulnerability was too much for him to bear.
“So I’m yours, now,” he said into Ghost’s mouth, almost conversationally, and felt the smile against his lips.
“Always have been,” Ghost said. “But it’s good to hear you say it.”