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Ghost has a habit of collecting the bones of the people he’s killed.
Phalanges are his favorite. He painstakingly whittles out holes into the bones in order to sew them into the fingers of his combat gloves with thick, white thread. He has 4 pairs now, collecting each individual bone from a different cadaver.
There was always plenty of time for a lieutenant to rip some bones out of a dead target on the field and if he took longer than usual with a casualty of war, no one gave him a second glance. He revels in the snap of cartilage, bone, loud in the wake of a phantom. His gloves were already stained in their blood all the same.
He keeps a list of his collection in his worn leather notebook. 59 phalanges. 2 coccyges. 6 femurs. The list goes on.
A sergeant new to the task force, Soap, questions him after a mission about the 3 vertebrae covered in sinew, gore and dirt strapped to the shoulder of Simon’s body armor. The other soldiers in the helicopter avert their eyes to the walls and ceiling at Soap’s bold questioning in the face of The Ghost.
Ghost stares indifferently and lets enough time pass to create an uncomfortable silence, but Soap still won’t avert his eyes like the other soldiers aboard.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, MacTavish.”
Not up for debate.
Time passes and Soap wedges his way between the plates of Ghost’s armor the more time he spends in the task force, so gradually that Soap probably thinks Ghost doesn’t notice.
Of course he notices. And he allows it.
Ghost can’t deny that the first time he’d felt alive in years was during the little moments between them. Moments he’d recall later in the solace of his room that have him leaving half moon indents in his palm with how hard he’d clench his fists in an attempt to keep a tight grip on his self control at the thought of Soap’s bronze skin, the laughter dancing in his eyes.
He’s compromised by his desire, and the enormity of it grips his heart with cold, lethal hands, and he can do nothing but surrender.
The two come together for the first time over a cigarette and the tail end of a bottle of Jura against the brick wall of the base. Soap shoves his tongue into the fabric of the mask, catching it on his canines in his desperation and Ghost shoves it up onto the bridge of his nose, clutching Soap to his chest. Their teeth meet cruelly, lips bloodied by the time they part.
Violent and all consuming, and when they fuck for the first time it’s the same.
Vows of devotion tenderly whisper from their throats, paradoxical to the way Ghost forces Soap’s bloodied face into the cold concrete floor as he fucks him brutally, surely tearing skin.
Soap rolls over to greet him in the morning, left cheek darkening from the way he begged Ghost to hit him. He beams through his split lip at Ghost, who returns the gesture through his own.
Soap, who always respects his privacy.
It’d taken Ghost months to even touch Soap without gloves on, afraid to hold such warm skin to his own, and now he can’t live without. When it comes to the mask Soap will playfully tell him how he bets, “how bonnie that mug looks under that thing.” But he never lifts a finger to touch it, won’t touch it. Unless Ghost clasps his hand in his own and even then Soap’s touch is so hesitant, clear blue eyes so wide and searching.
Simon didn’t know a touch could be so gentle.
He decides to show Soap his collection.
Soap knows about the bones, maybe not the full extent of what he would do with them. He’d catch Soap’s curious stares on returns from missions, fascinated by the grisly ivory hanging off his tactical vest. Not a word spoken of it since that day.
“Fuck. That’s hot.” Soap barks out at the sight of his collection of bones, teeth bared in a grin. Ghost scoffs, rising from his knees. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’d never lie to you, Simon.” Soap laments, feigning hurt with a hand held to his chest. “You’re one sick fuck, Johnny.” Ghost pulls Soap into him, capturing his lips in a kiss. “As if you have room to talk.” Soap says, laughing into Ghost’s mouth.
Ghost busies himself carving these bones. Whittling the larger ones down into the most delicate shapes. He hangs them on the sill of his singular, small window in his barracks. Lays them in ascending order of height on his desk.
He’s always had a thing for sounding.
He carves rods from the compact bone of fibulae and femora when he gets the chance to get his hands on such large bones from a warzone. He tediously polishes out the rough edges with fine sandpaper.
The first time he uses one on himself, he comes before it’s even fully inserted.
He doesn’t necessarily believe in any kind of higher power that would punish him for his desecrations, but what bad spirits would invade the den of a monster like him.
The first time Ghost introduces the rods into the bedroom, Soap quivers with arousal, anticipation. Ghost can practically smell it on him, nose buried into his flushing neck as he lays hungry kisses there. “Know you’ve never done this. I'll take it slow, Johnny.”
Ghost lets Soap run his fingers over the rod, familiarizing himself with the polished bone, his very favorite one, the first one he’d crafted. He snaps on black latex gloves and leans back on the heels of his boots. He peers up at Soap from between his naked thighs, seated on the edge of Ghost’s bed, drooling cock standing at attention despite Soap’s short, nervous exhales.
Ghost poses the slicked rod at Soap’s urethra. “Please.” Soap whines, so softly, “I want this.” Ghost can’t help the way his dick aches at the idea of him being the first to fill this hole for Soap.
“Patience, pet.” Ghost says fondly as he slowly feeds the slicked rod into Soap’s cockslit.
Soap fists the sheets at the sensation, like nothing he’d ever felt before.
“Holy fuuuck.” A high, wounded sound breaks open from deep in Soap’s chest. His body spasms, folding forward as he clambers to grab at Ghost’s shoulder and Ghost knows his pleasure. How its searing radiating, exquisite agony throughout his body, brought to the peak of pleasure and pain, stimulating the hidden parts of him he’d yet to discover.
Soap’s chest and neck are flushed scarlet– he’s vulnerable, gorgeous, flayed open and helpless at the mercy of Ghost’s hands. Soap can’t do a fucking thing except whimper like a man strung up and tortured while Ghost carefully withdraws the rod and strokes the head of Soap’s cock through his orgasm that paints his stomach, up to his chest with the intensity of his pleasure.
Ghost chuckles audibly, a low, pleased noise. He laps on the drooling tip of Soap’s spent cock, smiling at the sweet noise of his overstimulated cries. “Seemed to like that, Sergeant.”
Soap lets himself fall back onto the bed, body still twitching from the aftershocks. His tanned thighs splayed open, cum dripping down into the crease of his arse. A sight to behold. “Quiet you dirty bastard,” Soap croaks from behind his hands and cries out when Ghost sinks his hot tongue between Soap’s spread legs, devouring the cum pooling at his hole.
+++
This time, Ghost presents Soap a thin, rectangular, black box.
Ghost opens it to reveal striking, bleached bone laid on black velvet. The typical end of the rods Soap has seen are blunted, round, the rod thin and uniform. But not this time.
He pulls the rod out of its case to show Soap and its textured with repeating bumps and a tapered end and larger than their usual, skillfully crafted by Ghost’s hands.
“This might be a little bit of a new sensation.” Ghost says, running a hand through Soap’s mohawk. He leans in to kiss his forehead, handing it over for Soap to inspect.
Soap clasps it in his fingers with eyes wide in wonder, running his fingers over the gleaming ivory. Always incredulous that Simon's bloodstained fingers can create such pristine beauty.
He returns it to Ghost’s hands and sits on the bed with hands white knuckling his knees, leaking erection already straining against his toned stomach. He waits so patiently for Ghost’s instruction, his first move, for Ghost to give him what they both want.
Ghost makes a pleased sound in his throat at Soap’s unwavering obedience while he snaps on his black latex gloves. He moves to sit at Soap’s side and rests one of his legs over Soap’s thighs, an arm across his torso. Unconsciously pulling him into his chest, to his heartbeat, he latches his teeth to Soap’s pulse in a gentle, soothing grip.
“I trust you. With my life. There’s no exaggeration there." Soap confesses, so earnestly that Ghost can’t help but sink his teeth in harder, needing Soap to feel a modicum of his violent desires.
Soap gasps and presses Ghost’s face deeper into the crook of his neck, gripping Ghost’s arm across his chest in a vice, tighter to his chest. He sinks his teeth into Ghost’s arm, and Ghost groans at the sting of pain, “C’mon, Simon.”
He takes Soap’s chin in his hand, waiting for his eye contact to begin to insert the rod.
Ghost doesn’t recognize the garbled, high sounds coming out of Soap’s mouth as he feeds the ribbed bone into his cockslit. Tight body at the mercy of the ribbed femur in his weeping hole, the sting of the stretch singing sweet pain in his veins.
And god, it has to be the most beautiful thing Simon has ever seen, spellbound by how Soap’s greedy cock takes it.
Soap’s body is tensed in ecstasy with eyes screwed shut in pure rapture, sweat breaking out on his gorgeous skin as he writhes and Ghost longs to get a taste. His trust in Ghost is on full display, for his eyes only.
He jerks the head of Soap’s cock between his fingers in time with his measured thrusts of the rod as he steadily works it into Soap’s urethra, ignoring the slew of pleas from Soap to force it all the way into him at once.
Ghost maneuvers himself between Soap’s parted legs and mouths gently at his frenulum, earning a broken cry from Soap. His own erection strains painfully against his zipper and he can’t help the low groan that escapes him as he bucks into nothing for some kind of relief. Desperate to rub his cock out to the debauched sounds coming from that pretty mouth.
He drops his hand from the head of Soap’s cock and pushes his gloved thumb down past Soap's sack to his sloppy hole, dripping with Soap’s precum and the lube they’d been using. He drives his thumb in just past his rim into his clutching heat and Soap’s bucking hips seize and little, breathless gasps fall from his parted lips.
Ghost’s knuckles dig into the tender flesh above and he finally drives the rod into his hole to the hilt. The wet squelch of his hole gripping the rod as Ghost pistons it inside him fills the space between them, “Simon.” Soap cries out, voice wrecked by his arousal.
Ghost feels Soap’s cock violently throb in his hand and hurriedly removes the rod and works Soap through his orgasm with fingers pinched around his cockhead. He latches his mouth onto his tip to catch his spend and Soap flounders, gripping at the mask and Ghost’s hair so hard that Ghost is sure he’d ripped out a few.
“Fuckin’ hell” Ghost grits out through the haze of his arousal, incredulous that he’d gotten this man in his bed, at his mercy, and that Soap’s sick desires had matched his own.
He rises from his feet to wrap Soap’s legs around his waist and leans down to nip at his bottom lip. “Yeah, sir? Liked that?” he laughs as Ghost presses searing kisses into his neckline, “Know of another hole you could fill.” Soap practically purrs, tightening his grip on Ghost’s waist as he lifts him easily off the bed.
Ghost glowers down at Soap. He’s presumptuous, conceited, and every minute of his misery has been worth it as long as he can hold Soap in his arms.
He flips Soap onto his back and wildly grinds his clothed bulge into his flushed ass. “That right, sweetheart?” Ghost asks and Soap whines with his need, grinding his hole back into the rough of Ghost’s blue jeans, spreading his hole open in offering with a hand on his cheek, “Almost like you read my mind.”
+++
Soap hears the familiar, singular rap at his door and cranes his neck to shout in welcome, “Come in!” He swivels around in his chair to greet his boyfriend, bright and smiling.
Ghost steps into his barracks and unceremoniously hands him a square, black, box before stepping backwards towards the door, “Somethin’ for you.”
“What? For what, Simon. Did I forget it’s my own birthday or somethin’?” He starts to ramble, trailing off at the pensive look on his partner's face. Ghost averts his eyes, “S’been six months since we’ve been.. Doing. This.” he spits out, motioning for Soap to open the box before he decides to bolt out of the room.
Soap stares dumbly, “Oh.. Sir, I didn’t get you anything,” he says, not expecting this from Ghost. Ghost clears his throat and nods to the box, “Didn’t want you to.”
Soap opens the box, greeted with red velvet, black paper encasing something beneath. He unwraps it.
He strokes the striking ivory with gentle fingers and lifts it, holding it so delicately in his calloused hands. He lifts a hand to his mouth, tears welling in his eyes at the gesture, “It’s perfect.” Soap chokes out.
Soap curls his fingers around the bone, marveling at the craftsmanship. Ghost had painstakingly whittled an intertwined J and S from bone, the curve of the bone accentuated in the way the letters wind around each other.
Soap throws his arms around Simon's neck, knocking the air out of him, the gift held gently in his palm.
“Careful, Johnny.” Ghost says into Soap’s temple as he nuzzles there and Soap pulls back enough just to look at him, see the smile reaching his chestnut brown eyes. He lays a hand on Ghost’s sternum, over his heart, feeling it beat out of his chest. He kisses him so sweet, sickly with devotion, “I'd never break something you give me, Simon.”