Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun had barely crept over the horizon, its pale orange glow filtering through the thin curtains, casting Ghost’s room in a soft, almost angelic light.

The room itself was half bare and no nonsense, like the man who lived in it. A narrow bed sat pushed against the wall, sheets plain but meticulously kept, though Soap had learned they rarely stayed neat when he was in them. A metal desk stood opposite, papers stacked in disciplined order beside a battered mug and a small lamp that threw more shadow than light. Ghost’s gear was lined up with precision along the floor — boots polished, weapons maintained, clothes folded so tight they looked pressed flat.

It wasn’t warm or inviting, not at first glance. But Soap had come to know the room’s quiet atmosphere, its rigid order, as something steady. A place that anchored Ghost, and by extension, him.

Soap’d spent the night here again, same as so many others. What had started as a one-off—crashing in Ghost’s quarters after a late op or a rough mission—had become habit. Normal, almost. Nobody questioned why Soap always ended up in Ghost’s room, and if they did, they were smart enough not to ask. The sheets still carried Ghost’s warmth when Soap finally stirred, his body heavy with the comfort of it.

He’d woken up with a semi pressing against the fabric of his boxers, breath hot in the crook of his own arm where he’d slept. The sheets had tangled around his legs, damp with sweat, his body filled with the heat of a dream that cut itself short too soon. The ache in his cock hadn’t eased even after he’d pulled on his uniform, leaving him restless and unsteady beneath the neat, disciplined look of a soldier.

Now, leaning against the closed door of the room, Soap looked sharp as ever — boots laced tight, camo trousers snug across his thighs, shirt tucked crisp against his torso, sleeves rolled just enough to bare the muscle of his forearms. To anyone else, he looked ready for duty, composed and prepared. But the blush on his face and the measured up-and-down movement of his chest as he breathed, would give him away to a trained eye.

His eyes were fixed, drawn to Ghost with a pull he couldn’t fight. He tracked every motion: the roll of his shoulders, the flex of muscle underneath fabric, the quiet control in the way Ghost dressed.

It wasn’t the usual black gear this morning, instead, Ghost pulled on camo. Soap’s breath caught as his gaze roamed shamelessly over the mottled green and brown, the way the uniform hugged Ghost’s frame, how it shaped itself over wide shoulders before tapering to a taut waist. Each strap cinched, each buckle pulled, each movement precise. Soap could only imagine how that fabric would feel bunched in his fists, Ghost looming over him, close enough to catch the word “sir” on his lips before it even slipped free.

A rush of blood quickly went south, memories of their past encounters colliding with the sight in front of him — Ghost pinning him down, weight heavy and immovable, commands whispered in his ear. The ache between his legs throbbed insistently, turning his semi into a full bulge beneath the fabric of his cargos. He shifted against the door, trying to mask the movement as casual, but it did little to ease the restless pulse hammering low in his body.

He let out a controlled breath, an attempt to steady himself. He smoothed his face into something neutral, stoic, but he knew the look in his eyes was a tell he couldn’t hide. Ghost always noticed. And sure enough, Ghost paused mid-motion, head tilting ever so slightly, as if he could feel Soap’s stare like a physical touch.

Soap didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

“Staring again?” Ghost’s voice cut through the silence, muffled under the balaclava but dripping with quiet amusement. He adjusted his belt, drawing out the moment. Soap could hear the smirk in his tone that Ghost wasn’t showing.

His throat went dry. He shifted again, disguising it as a lazy roll of his shoulders when it was really to relieve the pressure of his cock pressing uncomfortably against his uniform. “Can’t help it, Lieutenant,” Soap replied, letting the rank roll tauntingly off his tongue. He knew what he was doing. “Y’know I’ve got a thing for uniforms.”

Ghost’s hand stilled at his collar, then lowered, every movement suddenly slowed. Finally, he turned, meeting Soap’s gaze head-on.

“Careful with that,” Ghost murmured. He closed the distance with a step, the sound of his boots heavy against the floor. “You know what happens when you call me that.”

Soap’s pulse kicked up, adrenaline mixing with something far hotter. His fingers twitched against his biceps where his arms were crossed, itching to reach for Ghost, to test just how far he could push.

He licked his lips, a grin tugging at the corner despite the tension crackling in the air. “Aye,” Soap said, gaze flicking over Ghost’s camo-clad frame once more before snapping back to his eyes. “That’s why I said it.”

“Trying to make us late to PT, Sergeant?” Ghost asked, the words more of a warning than a question. His gloved hand rose, fingers wrapping firm around Soap’s neck. The grip wasn’t crushing, but it was enough to make Soap’s breath hitch, enough to remind him of his place.

Ghost’s thumb pressed lightly under his jaw, tilting his chin up, forcing Soap to hold eye contact without flinching. The world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact — his throat under Ghost’s hand, his pulse thrumming wildly against the pressure.

Then, Ghost’s hand slid higher, palm cradling the back of Soap’s head before he gave a sharp tug to his hair. Soap let out a low sound, half laugh, half groan, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat as he bit his lip. The pull sent heat darting down his spine, his cock giving a twitch against the confines of his trousers.

Soap’s grin widened, cheeky even as his body betrayed him. “Couldn’t care less about PT right now, sir,” he teased, the title deliberate bait.

Ghost stepped in, closing the last inches of space between them until Soap could feel the heat radiating off him, the warm rush of breath ghosting through the fabric of the balaclava.

“Little fuckin’ whore,” Ghost rasped filthily. His boots scraped against the floor as he shifted, widening his stance. His hips pressed flush to Soap’s in a sudden, heavy grind that dragged along Soap’s aching cock, apparently just as affected.

Soap sucked in a sharp breath, his head knocking lightly against the doorframe. The friction sent a shudder rolling through him, his grin faltering into something breathless, hungry. He bit down on the sound rising in his throat but couldn’t smother the groan that slipped out.

Ghost pulled back only enough to give another rough hump, slower this time, grinding down hard enough that Soap swore he saw stars at the edges of his vision. The pressure, the weight, the sheer command in the movement left him gasping.

“Thought you liked uniforms,” Ghost murmured darkly, giving Soap’s hair another sharp tug, forcing him to tilt his head back and look up at him. “You’ll be creasing mine if you keep rubbin’ up me like this.”

Soap’s lips curved again, shaky but defiant, voice rough as he pushed into Ghost’s hips with desperation. “Worth it, sir.”

Slowly, Ghost tugged his balaclava up, revealing just enough to expose the lower half of his face. Before Soap could get a word out, Ghost leant forward, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was rough and unrestrained. It wasn’t polished or careful; sloppy and hot, the kind of kiss that left Soap reeling. He moaned into it, the sound muffled as Ghost swallowed it down, dragging him closer by the fistful of camo clutched in Soap’s hands. The fabric crumpled under his grip, that mottled green becoming something he could feel, taste, breathe in. It was maddening — Ghost in uniform, Ghost pressed to him, all of it hitting the centre of Soap’s chest like a strike.

Ghost’s grip in his hair tightened, tugging his head back just enough to keep him open and pliant while his tongue shoved deep, commanding every inch. Soap shivered under it, grinding forward helplessly, his cock rutting against Ghost's, the fabric scraping and dragging in a way that made Soap’s pulse pound in his throat. The rough press of combat trousers and belts grinding together made him fucking leak, the burn only making him push further into the pressure, rutting against Ghost like he needed it to breathe.

Ghost’s free hand locked down on his hip, fingers bruising through his clothes, guiding Soap into a rhythm that was relentless. Each thrust had Soap gasping and whining into the kiss, chasing it shamelessly, his chest heaving with the effort. The neatness of his shirt and crisp sleeves meant nothing now — it was wrinkled, creased under Ghost’s grip.

The kiss finally broke, their lips shiny with saliva, breath mixing hot between them. Ghost’s mouth hovered close, breaking into a seductive grin as he rasped, “Messy fuckin’ slut for the kit, aren’t you?” His teeth caught Soap’s lower lip, biting hard enough to sting before shoving their mouths back together, grinding their cocks rougher through uniform cloth until Soap’s vision went hazy.

A whimper tore from Soap before he could stop it, all pretence of control slipping through his fingers. The world narrowed to the feel of his superior pressed against him, solid and overwhelming, every shift of his hips setting Soap alight. He hooked one leg up instinctively, wrapping it around Ghost’s waist to drag him closer still. Ghost caught him without hesitation, one large hand sliding under his thigh, squeezing hard enough to leave fingerprints in his skin. The possessive grip made Soap shudder, nails biting into Ghost’s shoulders through his shirt.

“Fuck—s’ fuckin’ good, LT—” Soap slurred, words broken on a gasp as Ghost rolled their hips together again, relentless, unforgiving. His head tipped back against the door, lips slack, pupils blown wide as Ghost took him apart with nothing but fabric and force.

Ghost groaned hotly, the sound reverberating through Soap’s ribs as he leaned in close, lips ghosting over his ear. “Call me that again,” he ordered, his hand tightening possessively on Soap’s thigh as he pinned him harder against the door. “Louder.”

Soap’s head tipped forward, falling into the crook of Ghost’s neck, where the heat of his skin radiated. His chest heaved, the pressure between their hips dizzying, unbearable. He let it spill out of him, raw and unrestrained, a loud, shameless whine. “Lieutenant!”

The title cracked something open. Ghost’s whole body shuddered against him, his hips snapping forward in a rough, punishing grind that forced a cry from Soap’s throat. The door rattled under the force, his back arching as he clung tighter, fingers knotting into Ghost’s shirt like he could tear the fabric apart just to get closer.

“Fuck,” Ghost huffed out, like Soap’s desperation had dragged the restraint out of him. He bit down hard on Soap’s neck, teeth sinking through skin just enough to leave an ache behind, and then dragged his mouth up to claim his jaw in a messy trail of kisses and bites.

Soap gasped, every nerve alight, rutting helplessly against Ghost’s hips as his dick pulsed painfully in his trousers. “Sir—fuck—sir—” he babbled, half-plea and half-praise.

Ghost gripped tighter, hauling him higher by the thigh until Soap’s boot barely scraped the floor, holding him against the doorframe like he weighed nothing. The sheer strength of it, the way Ghost’s body caged and supported him, had another hot leak soaking into his briefs and leaving a spreading patch dark on his fatigues.

Ghost growled against his jaw, the sound feral, pushing his hips up in ruthless, grinding thrusts that had both of them dragging rough and fast against each other.

“Need your LT to take care of you, huh? Need your superior to call you a slut just so you can get off, hm?”

Soap let out a whorish groan, hips jerking erratically as he came hard in his trousers, cock twitching violently, cum spilling hot and wet into the ruined fabric. His whole body shuddered, caught between Ghost’s strength and the relentless friction that pushed him past the edge.

Ghost followed seconds later, a guttural groan ripping from his chest as his thrusts stuttered, pressing Soap hard into the doorframe as he ground out his release. His cock pulsed through his trousers, warmth flooding his underwear, the wet mess spreading between them as he held Soap tight against his body.

For a long, trembling moment, neither moved—just panting into each other’s mouths, lips brushing, sweat dampening the air between them. Soap sagged against Ghost’s chest, head spinning, his boxers clinging to his skin.

Ghost’s hand flexed once more on his thigh before sliding slowly down, steadying him back onto both feet. His tone was softer, smiling cheekily with satisfaction as he muttered against Soap’s lips:

"Fuckin' bootlicker."

Chapter Text

Ghost knows he’s a little fucked in the head.

Who wouldn’t be, after living his life?

Sure, maybe he’s a little too comfortable with guns. Maybe after years of carrying them, firing them, having them aimed right back at him — something shifted. Familiarity bled into something else, something darker, more enticing.

The firing range is a box of echoes — spent shells scattered underfoot, the scent of gunpowder thick in the air, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It’s clinical, but there’s something ritualistic about it too, the steady rhythm of shots cracking through the silence, ringing in Ghost’s skull.

Soap fits in here like he was born to it. Broad shoulders squared, stance easy but sure, that restless energy of his channeled into precision. His t-shirt clings in places, dark with sweat along the spine, sleeves stretched over his muscular arms. His cargo trousers hang loose but practical, dusted with powder residue, boots planted solid on the scuffed concrete. There’s nothing showy about him, but he fills the space all the same.

And then there’s the gun. A Sig Sauer P226, matte black, weighty, reliable. In Soap’s hands it looks alive, an extension of him. Ghost’s gaze sticks to the way his fingers curl around the grip, knuckles pale against dark steel. The deliberate press of his trigger finger, the slow, measured squeeze — controlled, patient. He tracks the way that same finger eases off, resets, glides back into place like it knows exactly how to coax a response. Tendons shift beneath skin, veins catching in the harsh light, every movement precise, intimate.

Ghost finds himself staring too long, imagining that same steadiness turned on him, that same sure touch mapped across flesh instead of metal.

He knows he shouldn’t find it hot. Not the gun. Not the man holding it. But as Soap lifts the Sig, sighting downrange with calm certainty, Ghost realises he isn’t just watching a soldier at work. He’s caught up in the shape of Soap’s hands, the promise in his fingers.

“Johnny.” He announces roughly, lower than he meant it to be.

Soap eases his finger off the trigger, head tilting back toward him. “Yeah, LT?”

“Lock the range doors from the inside.”

For a beat Soap just blinks, lips parting like he’s about to argue. Then his mouth curves instead — slow, knowing. He sets the gun down carefully on the counter, metal clicking against wood, and wipes his palm over his thigh before crossing the room.

“Yes, sir…” There’s a lilt in his voice, curiosity tangled with obedience, like he already knows what this is turning into.

Ghost doesn’t move as he watches the way Soap’s shoulders roll beneath the cling of his shirt, the way his fingers work the lock with that same careful precision that had Ghost staring in the first place. Hands built to fire a weapon. Hands Ghost suddenly wants everywhere else.

When Soap turns back, the room feels smaller, sealed. The air tastes like cordite and adrenaline.

“Put your gun to my head.”

Soap stills, the grin fading from his face as his brows knit. “Ghost—”

“I don’t want you to shoot me.” Ghost clarifies, slipping his voice into a lower tone to betray his intentions. “Just put it to my head.”

For a moment there’s only the buzzing of the overhead lights and the soft click of Soap picking up the gun. He’s watching Ghost carefully now, like he’s trying to see what’s underneath the mask, underneath the order.

“You’re serious,” Soap says at last.

Ghost doesn’t blink. “I trust you.”

Something shifts in Soap’s face — wariness, then understanding. His fingers wrap around the gun the same way they had at the line. He steps closer until Ghost can smell sweat and powder on his skin.

“Alright then,” Soap murmurs, “you’ll tell me if it’s too much.”

Ghost nods once. The muzzle of the gun rises, cool steel hovering inches from his temple, and the world narrows to the sound of his own heartbeat and the steady pressure of Soap’s hand.

It hits Ghost all at once, the surge of it — adrenaline, trust, desire, all tangled and choking. Before he can think better of it, he rips the mask up and off, exposing skin to the stale, powder-tainted air. He presses forward until his bare forehead meets the barrel, cold metal biting into warmth of his body. The contact sends a shiver racing down his spine.

Soap draws in a sharp breath. The gun doesn’t waver. His free hand flexes uselessly at his side, fingers twitching as though they’re caught between instinct and restraint, like he’s fighting the urge to close the space, to reach out and take hold of Ghost himself.

“You’re enjoying this,” Soap says at last. It isn’t a question, just a flat statement.

The laugh that leaves Ghost is jagged at the edges, almost manic. He tilts his head minutely into the barrel, pressing harder. “Yeah,” he rasps, the sound breaking in his throat, “maybe I am.”

The words hang in the air, thick and heavy. Ghost’s pulse drums loud in his ears, but he doesn’t look away. Not from Soap’s eyes, not from the way the man stares at him like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff and hasn’t decided whether to leap or pull him back.

Soap’s fingers tighten minutely on the grip, his knuckles pale against the steel, and his gaze sharpens like he’s sighting down something more dangerous than a target.

“You’re a fuckin’ freak, aren’t you? Bet you’re rock fuckin’ hard right now, huh?”

The words hang between them, crude and biting, but there’s heat under them too—an edge of curiosity, of provocation, as if he’s daring Ghost to admit it.

Ghost grins, feral, teeth flashing beneath the hum of the fluorescent lights. The look in his eyes is half-mad, half-starved. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” he teases, tone dark and playful, but his voice catches at the edges.

The barrel trembles, just slightly, as Soap exhales, steadying himself. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he drags the muzzle along Ghost’s temple, down the line of his cheek, until cold steel kisses the corner of his jaw. The gesture is intimate, but still laced with threat.

“Get on your knees,” Soap whispers, the words hot, unsteady.

Ghost obeys without hesitation. He sinks down onto the scuffed concrete, broad frame folding in front of Soap. He doesn’t try to hide it — the way he looks up through his lashes, practically fucking Soap with his eyes, face bared, cheeks flushed with heat. The sight alone feels like a confession, every ounce of control abandoned at Soap’s boots.

Soap stares down at him, slightly overwhelmed, the gun still in his grip though his hand has begun to shake. He drags his tongue over his teeth, jaw working as if he’s caught between disbelief and desire. The blue of his eyes gets half swallowed by the black of his pupils as he takes Ghost in: the ruined composure, the raw want written across his face.

“Bloody hell,” Soap mutters, throat dry. His free hand twitches again, hovering uselessly at his side. He wants to touch, Ghost can see it — wants to thread his fingers through his hair, wants to grab him by the throat, wants to do anything but keep standing still.

Ghost tilts his head, presses his forehead forward until it grazes the muzzle again. “What’s wrong, Johnny?” he teases, lips curling into something between a smirk and a plea. “Don’t know what to do with me now that I’m where you want me?”

The taunt lands like a spark to dry tinder. Soap swears under his breath, and finally lowers the gun — not dropping it, but shifting it so the weight rests heavy against Ghost’s shoulder. His free hand rises at last, fingers sliding into Ghost’s hair, rough and trembling, gripping tight as though to anchor himself.

“Want you chokin’ on my cock…” Soap breathes, the words torn out of him like a confession he can’t hold back.

Ghost’s grin widens, wild and hungry. “That can be arranged.” His tone is teasing, but there’s nothing light about the way he moves. His hands rise, sure and steady, tugging at Soap’s belt. The metallic clink of the buckle breaking loose rings loud through the quiet room. He never looks away, even as he undoes the zip. Eyes locked on Soap’s, daring him, feeding off the way Soap’s composure unravels inch by inch.

When his thumbs slide under the edge of Soap’s boxers, he finally lets his gaze drop. The heat of Soap’s cock presses against his palm, heavy and insistent through the thin fabric. The fingers in his hair tighten sharply, a hiss escaping Soap’s teeth as Ghost edges closer, close enough to feel the warmth of him, to breathe him in.

He noses along the hard line beneath cotton, letting the blunt drag of his breath ghost across sensitive skin. Soap’s hips twitch, betraying restraint, and Ghost smirks against him, lips brushing but not giving. Teasing. Testing.

“Christ, Simon,” Soap huffs, fraying at the edges, “don’t fuckin’ play with me.”

But Ghost does play, mouthing lazily at the outline, tongue pressing just enough to make Soap groan, just enough to make him strain for more.

Ghost hooks his fingers into the waistband and drags it down with agonising slowness, the fabric catching, until Soap’s cock is freed, flushed and hard. He doesn’t stop staring up as he fists the base, tilting his head like he’s studying a weapon he’s about to dismantle.

“Hot,” he murmurs, reverent and filthy all at once.

“Then stop starin’ at it and fuckin’ use that mouth.”

Ghost bares his teeth in a grin that’s almost obscene. “Yes, sir.”

He lowers his head and takes Soap in with a hunger that borders on violence — lips sealing, tongue working, throat flexing as he forces himself deeper, swallowing down the startled noise that tears from Soap. His hands anchor on Soap’s hips, steady, grounding, even as his jaw aches and his chest heaves with the effort.

Ghost groans at the taste of pre on his tongue, at the way Soap stretches out his throat, at the way his face is smushed into his pubes. Soap moans quietly in reward, and Ghost swallows around him to fetch more sounds from him.

The reaction is instant — Soap hips jerking before he reins himself back in. He mutters something unintelligible, Scots by Ghost's guess. Ghost hums in answer, the vibration running down Soap’s cock, and that drags another groan out of him, rougher this time, more urgent.

Saliva slicks Ghost’s lips, dribbles down his chin, but he doesn’t care — won’t stop. He pushes harder, throat straining to take more, until Soap is shuddering above him, blue eyes blown wide and wild, gun still forgotten but dangling heavy in his grip.

“Fuck—” Soap gasps, head tipping back, sweat shining at his temples. He looks down again, and the sight floors him: Ghost on his knees, mask discarded, face flushed and wet, throat working around him like he was made for this.

“You’re unreal,” Soap pants, almost laughing, disbelief breaking through the pleasure. His voice cracks when Ghost drags back slow, sucking hard enough to make him see stars, only to sink down again with ruthless determination.

“Christ almighty, Simon, you’re gonna—” The warning dies in his throat when Ghost grips him tighter at the base, squeezing, controlling the rhythm even as he submits. It’s obscene, the push and pull between them — Ghost gagging himself willingly, Soap fighting the instinct to thrust, both of them caught in the spiral.

Soap lets out a long, heavy moan, head tipping back before he forces himself to look down. The sight punches through him — Ghost’s cheeks hollowed, spit slicking his chin, eyes blown wide and fucked-out but still locked on him, demanding.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” Soap asks, half-rhetorical, a taunt riding his moan.

Ghost hums around him in answer, the vibration buzzing hot down Soap’s cock. He tries to nod minutely, throat full, eyes daring him to push further.

Soap swears under his breath again, chest heaving. His hand shifts, the gun still in his grip — and then he presses the barrel back against Ghost’s temple. The reaction is instant: Ghost whines around him, the sound wet and desperate, a shudder running through his whole body. His throat tightens reflexively, dragging another ragged curse from Soap.

“Fuckin’ hell…” Soap mutters. He presses the muzzle firmer, not enough to hurt but enough to remind him it’s there. “You like that, don’t you? Gettin’ off on me holdin’ a gun to your head while you choke on my cock.”

Ghost’s lashes flutter, his jaw working as if the words alone nearly undo him. Another needy moan spills out, throat clutching tight around Soap, and Soap almost loses it right there.

The hand in Ghost’s hair tugs sharply, forcing him to look up even with his mouth full. Their eyes catch, blue on brown, both of them ruined, and Soap’s grin cracks through his restraint — wild, disbelieving.

“Dirty fuckin’ bastard,” he rasps, hips twitching. “Bet you’d let me paint your face with this, wouldn’t you?”

The thought has Ghost’s pupils swallowing what’s left of his eyes, another muffled groan buzzing around Soap’s cock, eager and reckless. His hips jerk forward helplessly, rutting shallowly against nothing in his desperation.

Soap notices immediately, a grin twisting on his face. He shifts his stance, boots solid on the concrete, and slides one forward until the worn leather presses against Ghost’s thigh. With a low chuckle, he tips the barrel firmer into Ghost’s temple.

“Go on,” he orders, amused.

Ghost whines, the sound obscene with his throat still full, and then he obeys — grinding down against the boot, rutting slow and needy. The scrape of leather against his crotch is harsh, imperfect friction, but it’s enough to drag a shiver through his body.

“Good lad,” Soap murmurs, hand in Ghost’s hair tightening to hold him down as his hips finally roll, shallow thrusts into his mouth. “Look at you… cock down your throat and humping my boot like a mutt. Christ, you’re gone.”

Ghost can only answer with more noise, broken and desperate, spit stringing from his lips as his throat works around Soap. His rutting picks up in rhythm, bucking against the leather, grinding for any friction he can get. The sight alone makes Soap’s stomach knot, heat building quickly.

“What are you gonna do when I shoot my load down that filthy throat, eh? Gonna cum in your pants like a fuckin’ mess?”

Ghost’s answering moan is wrecked, nearly a sob, his whole body trembling with the threat of it.

Soap keeps the gun pressed firm to his temple, before his control finally breaks. With a guttural groan, he starts fucking into Ghost’s mouth, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm. No more restraint, no more careful teasing — just raw need.

Ghost takes it, gagging, throat clenching tight around him with every thrust. His nails dig into Soap’s hips, grounding himself as spit runs down his chin and splatters dark on the concrete. Every choked sound he makes only spurs Soap harder, the sight of him undone — massive, on his knees, swallowing cock like he needs it to live — burning into Soap’s brain.

“Fuckin’—fuck—” Soap grits out, voice breaking into a ragged moan. He looks down, sees Ghost’s wild eyes staring up at him, pupils blown, rutting helplessly against his boot, and it wrecks him. The gun doesn’t waver from Ghost’s head, trembling in Soap’s grip, the threat and trust binding them tighter with every thrust.

It hits Soap like a punch — his hips stutter, breath tearing out of him in something close to a whine as he spills down Ghost’s throat. Hot, thick, endless. Ghost swallows greedily, choking but desperate to take it all, throat working around him until Soap’s legs nearly buckle.

The gun slips from his temple as Soap groans through the aftershocks, dragging his cock free with a wet, obscene sound. Ghost gasps for air, spit and come smeared over his lips, chest heaving. He looks wrecked, destroyed, and yet the filthy grin curling his mouth is pure triumph.

Soap stares down at him, half-dazed, cock still twitching in the aftermath, gun dangling slack in his hand. “Hells fuckin' bells,” he pants, disbelieving.

Ghost wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still on his knees, and chuckles hoarsely. “Told you I’d enjoy myself.”

Chapter Text

“John MacTavish?”

John glanced up from his chair in the doctor’s waiting room. The walls were plastered with posters detailing everything from the signs of a common cold to the warning symptoms of chlamydia. A dull blue carpet stretched across the floor, doing little to liven the space or distract from the painfully outdated atmosphere of the clinic. The overhead lights hummed faintly, casting everything in a sterile, washed-out glow that made the beige walls seem even more tired. A low counter with a flickering computer monitor divided the receptionist’s desk from the rest of the room, though the chair behind it sat empty. The air carried that faint, unmistakable tang of antiseptic, clean, yet clinging in a way that made John shift uncomfortably in his seat. A stack of wrinkled magazines leaned precariously on a side table, pages curled and yellowed, as though no one had touched them in years.

“Yeah, that’s me.” John sighed, pushing himself up from the chair.

He had to force himself not to gawk when he looked at the man waiting for him by the hallway. The doctor stood tall, shoulders squared beneath the sharp lines of his white coat. His dark scrubs contrasted with the pale walls, but what caught John's attention the most, was his face — half-hidden behind a simple black surgical mask, leaving only brown eyes visible, steady and intense, like they could see straight through him. His blond hair was short but attractively messy, which John desperately tried to ignore.

“Follow me,” the doctor said, and John felt an unexpected shiver trace his spine at the sound of his voice.

“I’m Dr. Riley — we spoke on the phone,” he added as they walked down the short corridor. His tone was calm, professional, but there was a weight behind it that had John wishing he would keep talking.

The corridor opened into a small office, warmer than the waiting room yet still unmistakably clinical. A tidy desk sat by the window, papers stacked in precise piles, a mug half-full of tea leaving a faint ring on the wood. On the wall hung a framed degree, the gilt edging just slightly tarnished, and a single potted plant stood stubbornly alive on the sill, its green a welcome contrast to the sterile whites and greys around it.

Dr. Riley gestured toward the chair opposite his desk, the movement clearly practiced, something he must repeat several times a day. He didn’t waste words; even the smallest shift of his broad hands carried a quiet authority.

As John sat down, the faint snap of latex drew his attention. The doctor was pulling on a pair of black gloves, stretching the material over his fingers with calm precision, as though the action was second nature. The sound alone made John’s pulse quicken in ways he didn’t care to admit.

“So, John,” Dr. Riley said, settling into his own chair with measured ease, his eyes fixed on him over the rim of the mask, “I understand you have some sexual concerns?”

John had to resist the urge to splutter at the bluntness of the question, heat already rising to his face.
“I, uhm— yeah. I got tested for a bunch of STIs, so I know it’s not that… it’s just, I—” He broke off with a sigh, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to collect his thoughts.

Unexpectedly, Dr. Riley tugged his mask down and set it aside. John suspected the gesture was meant to make him feel at ease — but instead, it caused his brain to practically short circuit.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Dr. Riley’s face was sharper than John imagined, all hard lines and shadows, but there was nothing cold about it. His mouth was fuller than it had any right to be, his nose strong and uncompromising, and the faint stubble along his jaw was hot. It was unfair, really — someone like that hiding behind a mask all day, as though he needed to keep the world from noticing.

John’s stomach became traitorously warm. He was supposed to be embarrassed about his symptoms, not the fact that his doctor looked like he belonged on the cover of some glossy magazine.

“There’s no shame in it,” Riley said, his voice gentler now without the mask muffling it. “Just take your time.”

John let out another sigh, closing his eyes briefly before forcing the words out. “It hurts a bit when I… ejaculate.”

When he opened his eyes again, Dr. Riley’s expression hadn’t shifted — calm, professional, entirely unfazed.

“I see. On a scale of zero to ten,” Riley asked, tone steady, “zero being no pain at all and ten being the worst you can imagine — where would you place it?”

“About a one and a half,” John admitted.

“Has it always been that way?”

“Pretty much. Just… realised recently that even a little pain probably isn’t normal.”

Riley gave a slow nod, making a note on the chart. “You’re right — it isn’t something to ignore. In this case, I think a genital examination would be appropriate, to rule out any obvious issues. If you’re uncomfortable with that, I need you to say so now. You’ll have control the entire time — you can stop the exam at any point. Understood?”

John felt his cheeks heat, but he nodded anyway. He wasn’t uncomfortable with the idea. What had him blushing was the mortifying certainty that there was no way he was going to stay soft through the process.

“Good,” Riley said simply. “There’s a screen just there.” He stood and gestured to the curtained-off area in the corner of the room. “Go ahead and undress from the waist down. When you’re ready, just go ahead and sit on the examination table.”

John swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. The clinical language should have helped, but the low calm of Riley’s voice, paired with those steady eyes, made it feel far more personal than it had any right to. He stood and made his way behind the screen, fumbling out of his jeans and underwear with fingers that felt clumsy.

By the time he sat on the table, heart thudding in his chest, Dr. Riley was already moving closer, pushing the curtain aside and stepping into the space with him. John had to force himself to breathe evenly as the doctor’s eyes inevitably dropped.

For just a fraction of a second, Riley’s expression flickered — something quick, something he smoothed over almost instantly. But John had caught it: the brief widening of his eyes, the subtle pause.

John swallowed hard. He knew he was big. Hard not to notice when you were pushing five inches soft and nearly eight hard, with heavy balls to match. It was something he’d been aware of his whole adult life—something that usually came with pride, but right now only deepened his embarrassment.

Riley recovered seamlessly, his face sliding back into that cool, unreadable professionalism.

“Ready?” he asked, voice steady, brown eyes looking back at him innocently as if nothing at all had passed between them.

John nodded, though his throat felt tight. “Y-yeah.”

“Alright.” Riley stepped closer, his presence suddenly filling the small space as he crouched. “I’ll be gentle. Let me know the moment there’s any discomfort.”

Jesus H. Christ.

John clenched his fists against the paper sheet beneath him, summoning every ounce of willpower he had not to embarrass himself. But it was a losing battle — how could it not be, with one of the most devastatingly attractive men he’d ever seen crouched between his thighs.

Cool, latex-covered fingers settled against him, careful and methodical. Riley lifted and rolled his balls with a clinical steadiness, palpating for swelling, tenderness, anything out of the ordinary. To John, it was torture — each brush of touch sending sparks up his spine, his cock stirring against his desperate wishes.

Riley, for his part, didn’t flinch. His gaze was analytical, as though John’s body were nothing more than a puzzle to be solved. If he noticed the twitch of arousal — or the way John’s cock was starting to harden — he gave no sign.

Dr. Riley’s fingers shifted, moving deftly from his balls to the length of his cock. The touch was precise, measured, as he palpated along the shaft, checking for irregularities.

Fuuuuck.

John’s breath hitched, and he forced it out in a shaky huff, desperate not to let the sound turn into something more incriminating. Every nerve in his body was lit up, and it took everything he had not to buck under the doctor’s steady hand.

“Any tenderness here?” Riley asked evenly, his thumb pressing along one side with deliberate care.

“N-no,” John managed, his voice a touch higher than usual.

“And here?” Another shift, firm but unhurried.

John squeezed his eyes shut. “Still no.”

Riley hummed softly in acknowledgment, his tone as calm as if he were asking about the weather. But the gloved hand remained steady on him, professional to the point of cruelty, and John had never in his life felt more exposed.

“Hm. Nothing out of the ordinary,” Riley said at last, his voice clipped and certain. Still, his eyes lingered a beat too long on John’s semi-hard cock, the silence stretching thin. For a moment, he almost looked distracted — like his thoughts had slipped somewhere else entirely.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, as though he hadn’t intended the words to come out at all. “Probably best to take a sperm sample.”

John blinked, heat flooding his face. “A… sample?”

Riley cleared his throat, the flicker of hesitation gone as quickly as it had come. “Yes. It’s a standard procedure in cases like this. The lab can rule out certain issues that wouldn’t show up on a physical exam.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but his gaze didn’t quite meet John’s now, as if he knew exactly how the suggestion sounded.

John swallowed, his cock twitching uselessly against the chill air. “And… how does that work, then?”

Dr. Riley’s gloved hands flexed once at his sides before he moved to peel them off, tossing them neatly into the bin. When he looked back, his face was carefully schooled into neutrality.

“I’ll step out and give you privacy,” Riley began smoothly, though his gaze lingered a little too long. “There are containers in the drawer. You’ll just… deposit the sample into the cup, and leave it on the tray.”

But then his voice dipped, softer, almost reluctant, like the words escaped before he could stop them. “Unless you’d prefer some… assistance.”

John froze, his brain tripping over itself. For a second he was certain he’d misheard. Doctors didn’t say things like that. They weren’t supposed to.

But Riley’s eyes hadn’t moved — they were locked on John’s erection, though that calm mask was starting to fray at the edges.

John let out a low laugh, more nerves than amusement. “Is that… standard procedure?” he asked, quirking a brow.

A beat of silence. Riley’s lips curved, just slightly — not enough to be called a smile, but too much to be nothing. “No,” he admitted, voice deep. “But you’re completely within your rights to say no.”

John smirked despite himself, heat twisting through his chest and settling deep in his gut. “And if I don’t?”

Riley didn’t look away. He didn’t fidget, didn’t blink, didn’t move except to rest one hand lightly against the edge of the examination table — close, steady, waiting.

“Then,” he said, voice smooth as silk but heavy with intent, “I'll put on another pair of gloves.”

Dr. Riley didn’t rush. He rolled the black gloves over his fingers with the same calm precision as before, the faint snap of latex loud in the small space. When he turned back, the small tube of lubricant rested easily in his palm, but his gaze never once strayed from John.

“Lean back for me,” he said, the instruction simple, but John didn't miss the added roughness in his tone that wasn't present before.

John obeyed, palms flat against the crinkling paper of the table as he eased himself down, legs spreading wider without conscious thought. His pulse thrummed in his ears, each beat pounding harder as Riley moved closer.

The doctor pressed a measured squeeze of lube into one gloved hand, rubbing it slowly between his fingers until they gleamed. The sight alone made John’s cock twitch, straining against the cool air.

Riley’s touch, when it came, was steady — careful, methodical, the way he might handle any patient. He wrapped his slicked fingers around the base of John’s cock, testing the weight of him before sliding upward in one long, smooth stroke.

“Tell me,” Riley said, his voice low, professional, but unmistakably intimate. “Any discomfort?”

John let out a breath that was far too close to a groan. “N-no,” he managed, though his hips threatened to lift against the touch.

“Good,” Riley murmured, thumb brushing deliberately over the head as though to check sensitivity, his movements precise — but the faint tension in his jaw betrayed that this was no ordinary exam.

John swallowed hard, every muscle taut. Christ. This was really happening.

“You’re very tense. Is there anything I can do to help?” Riley asked evenly, though his hand didn’t pause — it slid with slow, deliberate precision along John’s shaft, spreading the lubricant in steady, methodical strokes.

John’s breath stuttered. “Just… don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he gritted out, knuckles white where he clutched the table beneath him, fighting the urge to let the sound bubbling in his throat turn into a moan.

Riley’s eyes flicked up to meet his, dark and unwavering. “Sexual wellness is an important aspect of your health,” he said, tone calm, professional — but his hand never faltered, gliding smoothly from base to tip, thumb pressing just firmly enough to make John’s hips twitch. “My job is to help you stay healthy. Don’t be afraid to relax and express your feelings. It will help the process.”

That final sentence, delivered in that nonchalant tone nearly undid him. John bit his lip, a strangled sound escaping anyway. His cock throbbed in Riley’s gloved hand, dripping a considerable amount of pre now, betraying every ounce of arousal he was fighting to contain.

Riley hummed softly, almost thoughtful, as though cataloguing every reaction. “That’s better,” he said, his strokes tightening just slightly. “Much more natural. You don’t need to hold back.”

John groaned this time, shoulders pressing into the table, his chest rising and falling in shallow, desperate breaths. He wanted to crack a joke, wanted to cling to some semblance of composure, but the words slipped out instead, ragged and unfiltered.

“F-fuck...”

Riley’s mouth curved, just slightly, the barest hint of something breaking through the mask of professionalism. Still, his voice remained calm, unwavering, as his hand worked him with practiced steadiness.

“Good,” he murmured. “That’s exactly what I need you to do. Just keep responding naturally.”

John panted, a moan leaving his throat.

The sound seemed to please Riley. “That’s it,” he coaxed, his tone unshaken, like he was guiding John through an exercise rather than stroking his cock with deliberate care. “Don’t fight it. Let your body do what it needs.”

John forced his eyes open, meeting Riley’s gaze. The doctor’s expression was still composed, but there was something there now — a heat simmering beneath the surface, restrained but undeniable. His gloved hand pumped steadily, twisting slightly at the top, and John nearly bucked off the table.

“Jesus—” he gasped.

Riley leaned in just a fraction, his voice intimate. “Breathe through it. Don’t hold back.”

John’s pulse thundered in his ears. Every nerve in his body was lit, his muscles straining with the effort to keep control. But control was slipping fast — every stroke dragging him closer, winding him tighter.

His hands fisted uselessly against the table, paper crinkling loud. His voice cracked, desperate. “I’m— I’m close—”

Riley’s eyes darkened, and for the first time his composure slipped enough to show a glint of hunger. His strokes quickened, just barely, but the change was devastating. He picked up a specimen cup, holding it steady at the tip of John’s cock as his other hand blissfully pumped.

John barely managed to suck in a breath before his body gave in. His hips jerked, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he spilled hard into the cup. One spurt, then another — and another, thick, heavy ropes filling far more quickly than Dr. Riley had anticipated.

The doctor’s brows lifted slightly, his grip never faltering as he kept the cup in place, watching with clinical focus as it filled past halfway… then nearly to the top.

John collapsed back against the table, chest heaving, face flushed crimson. “S-shit… sorry, I— I can’t—” His words broke apart as another pulse of cum forced its way out, leaving the cup brimming. A few stray drops even streaked Riley’s gloved hand before it finally ebbed.

Riley held still for a long moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied the sample. Then, with calm precision, he set the full cup aside on the tray, peeling off one glove with a clean snap.

His voice, when he spoke, was steady again — but softer, almost fascinated. “That,” he said, glancing back at John sprawled on the table, “isn’t typical volume.”

John blinked blearily, still trying to catch his breath. “…What?”

Riley tugged off the second glove, discarding it neatly before folding his arms. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes lingered on John with quiet intensity. “You’re producing far more semen than average. It explains the discomfort you described.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “It’s a condition called hyperspermia.”

John groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s… real?”

Riley’s mouth twitched like he might smirk, though it never fully formed. “Oh, it’s very real.” He gestured toward the overfull cup, tone measured but undeniably edged with interest. “And in your case… remarkable.”

Chapter Text

Price had Ghost pinned beneath him, one hand firmly gripped the man’s wrists, pressing them into the rumpled sheets above his head. His other hand rested at Ghost’s waist, fingers digging into the rough fabric of his shirt, the touch possessive rather than cruel.

Ghost’s mask was half-askew, half-off, lower face exposed to allow Price to suck on his tongue. The dim light from the bedside lamp painted them both in muted amber, catching on the sweat at Price’s temple, the rough scrape of his beard against Ghost's stubble. His clothes still clung to him — khaki green sleeves rolled to his elbows, camo cargos shifting with his legs, the smell of tobacco rising from his skin — while Ghost lay beneath in a tight black undershirt, the outline of muscle exposed where Price’s grip tightened.

The way Price kissed him was nothing short of possessive — consuming, dominating. The heat of it seemed to reach down to the bones, igniting something primal, both men moaning into the others mouth headily.

Ghost's body stayed tense beneath Price’s weight, muscles coiled like a wire, yet his surrender was absolute. There was strength in it — the kind of submission that wasn’t weakness but a choice. His chest rose against Price’s, the solid press of two men built for violence; sweat, breath and adrenaline tangled together.

Price could feel every inch of him — the breadth of his shoulders, the thud of his pulse, the faint tremor running beneath his skin. When he finally drew back, his breath rasped between them, rough and wanting.

“God, I want to hurt you.”

The words slipped out low, half-groaned. His eyes dragged over the exposed part of Ghost’s face, drinking in every detail — the slack mouth, the way those dark eyes went heavy and dazed when he was turned on, fixed on Price like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. Ghost swallowed hard, throat working between his panting. Price leaned down, lips brushing that spot before biting — slow, taunting.

“F–fuck,” Ghost gasped, the sound breaking halfway into a whine. “Yeah… please. Hurt me.”

Price’s teeth sank deeper, enough to make Ghost’s breath hitch, to draw a shiver that ran through both of them — want and pain blurring until it was all the same thing. He sucked hard, licking over the teeth marks before pulling away, looking over the mottled purple bruise already forming.

"Yeah? Feelin' like a painslut today?"

Ghost’s chest heaved, breath coming in staccato'd hitches. He nodded, the movement small but desperate, lip caught between his teeth. His eyes never left Price’s face — pupils blown wide, the faintest tremor running down his throat where the bruise throbbed.

Price chuckled under his breath, a sound that rumbled more than it laughed. His hand slid down, palm flat over Ghost’s sternum, feeling the steady hammer of his heartbeat. The other hand went to Ghost’s belt, fingers working the buckle with teasing slowness. When the belt finally came free, he dragged it from the loops in one smooth pull, the sound of leather whispering through fabric. He set it aside on the sheets next to them, now working at Ghost's zipper.

Ghost shifted beneath him, hips twitching up as if his body moved before his mind could. Together they worked the fabric away — the sound of cloth sliding over skin, the faint tremor in Ghost’s breath as the cool air touched him.

Price sat back on his haunches for a moment, just looking at him. Ghost’s legs were strong, carved with the kind of muscle built from years of motion and strain, thighs corded and tense. Faint scars crossed here and there — reminders of the work they’d done, the places they’d been — but to Price they only added to the whole picture: a body built for endurance, for strength, for him.

He reached out, fingers tracing the curve of Ghost’s thigh, rough calluses catching on smooth skin. The way Ghost reacted — the subtle shift of his breath, the twitch of muscle beneath his touch — made something deep in Price tighten with a mix of hunger and pride.

He was already hard, always quick to become so under Price's manipulation, a simple kiss or grope making him feel like a virgin again with the speed his cock chubbed up. His dick rested on his stomach, red and aching in anticipation, balls heavy between his legs.

Price’s voice dropped low, the sound roughened by want. “Such a good boy for me, always…” he murmured. His tone softened for just a heartbeat, that rare edge of care slipping through the roughness. “As always — you tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. Understood?”

He held Ghost’s gaze, the usual command in his expression tempered by something steadier — a check, a quiet demand for honesty. His thumb brushed over Ghost’s pulse point, feeling it flutter wild beneath his skin.

Ghost nodded quickly, breath stuttering. “Yeah, just—” His voice broke, the need in it almost pitiful. “Just hurt me, please. Hurt me.”

Price’s mouth curved into something between a smirk and a grin, half amusement, half hunger. “That’s my boy.”

He leaned back slightly, the shift in weight making Ghost feel every ounce of the control pressing down on him. His palm slid over Ghost’s hip, the skin warm and taut beneath his hand. For a moment, his touch was almost tender — a firm squeeze, a thumb tracing along the edge of bone — before he lifted his hand and brought it down in a sharp, echoing crack against the length of Ghost’s cock.

The sound filled the room, followed by Ghost’s broken whimper. His body jerked — thighs flexing, abs tightening, hips twitching as his cock jumped against his stomach. His breath caught on a sharp inhale, trembling between shock and arousal.

Price hummed low in his throat, the sound approving, hot. “There it is,” he drawled, watching the flush bloom along Ghost’s neck, the way his chest rose and fell in quick bursts. “You take it so well. Good boy.”

He didn’t give him time to recover. Price’s hand flattened again over Ghost’s stomach, holding him down as the other drifted lower, rubbing over the sensitive flesh that still twitched from the blow. His touch was slow now, circling the base with rough fingers, spreading the wetness already gathering at the tip across his skin.

Ghost’s thighs trembled, legs quivering under the restraint. Every nerve felt wired, each breath catching as the sting faded into something hotter, deeper. “Fuck—” he gasped, voice cracking. “Price, please—”

“Please what?” Price interrupted, tone smooth and taunting. His fingers ghosted up, tracing the head of Ghost’s cock with just enough pressure to make him jolt. “You want more?”

Ghost nodded quickly, eyes squeezed shut, his jaw slack with helpless sound. “Yeah—more, sir—please—”

Price’s grin widened, cruel and fond in equal measure. “Look at me when you ask.”

It took effort, but Ghost forced his eyes open, meeting that piercing blue gaze. The sight alone made him moan — Price’s face shadowed and hungry, his pupils blown wide.

“There we go,” Price murmured, satisfaction curling around the words. He drew his hand back and brought it down again — harder this time. The slap rang out, followed by a wet, choked sound from Ghost’s throat. His whole body arched, hands twitching against the restraint as his breath came in ragged gasps.

Price didn’t stop. He alternated between soft strokes and sudden strikes, watching the flush spread across Ghost’s chest, the way his cock leaked freely, the slickness catching the lamplight. Each time Ghost whimpered or moaned his name, Price’s control wavered just a little more.

By now, there was a puddle of pre-cum under the head of his cock, tears escaping the edge of his mask, and a blissed out, dazed look in his eyes that made Price's underwear feel far too tight. "How's my good boy doing?" He asked softly.

"More... please." Ghost whined, clawing at Price's wrist like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

Price huffed a ragged breath at the tone, "how could I say no to that?"

He picked up the belt that previously lay abandoned on the sheets, folding the black leather in half, testing the weight of it on his own thigh with a smack. Ghost watched, subconsciously trying to close his legs at the sound of the impact. Price just smirked at him and kept his legs open with one hand.

"Don't shy away from me, pretty thing."

Without warning, he smacked Ghost's balls between his legs. The loud crack rang out and Ghost's eyes all but rolled back into his head. He gasped, not even able to make sound as the enormous wave of pain wracked his system. The endorphin rush was sudden, and before he could take in a breath, his orgasm crashed down on him, cum drooling thick and hot onto his stomach as his cock throbbed with the pleasure of it.

His vision actually blacked out for a moment, and the first sound he was able to make was the most pathetic, slutty little pained whimper, that Price now considers to be the hottest thing he's ever heard.

"Oh you poor thing..." Price groaned out, less sympathy and more awe. He watched as Ghost writhed through the pain-pleasure, cum smearing onto his shirt. It took several minutes for him to settle, and when he did, Price had nothing but praise on his lips.

"Did so well, I'm so proud. My good boy."

Chapter Text

The door hissed open on its track, and Ghost stepped through like a shadow breaking off from the dark. He filled the threshold in a way that made the room feel smaller — not because of his size, but because of the silence that seeped from him.

He’d been gone a week, maybe eight days if you counted the hours lost to bad comms and worse weather. Enough time for the base to start to breathe differently without him — lighter, looser. But now the air seemed to tighten back around the edges, like the building itself recognised the destructive energy about him.

Soap looked up from where he sat at the edge of his bunk, half through the motion of unlacing his boots. Ghost didn’t meet his eye. He didn’t meet anyone’s. The balaclava stayed on, streaked with dust and the faint scuff of dried blood near his nose. His eyes were the only thing visible — and even they looked worn, too alert for the hour.

The room was lit by the flat wash of a single ceiling lamp, its flicker making the walls pulse between grey and something yellower, more anxiety inducing. Two bunks. A metal locker. The sharp smell of cleaning solvent and cigarette smoke. Soap had left a mug on the table, a ring of coffee going cold inside it. The kind of nothing-space that could belong to any soldier, anywhere.

Ghost dropped his pack by the door. It hit the scratchy blue carpet with a heavy sound that said finally, though his shoulders stayed tense, as if he hadn’t let it go.

Soap watched him for a moment longer, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Rough one?” he asked, voice careful, like you might test ice with the tip of your boot.

Ghost's gloves flexed once at his sides, leather creaking softly. When he did finally look over, it wasn’t a glare — just the look of a man pulled too far inside his own head to climb back out in one go.

“I’ll shower,” Ghost said. His voice came out scraped, almost a growl from disuse. Then he was gone through the adjoining door, leaving behind the ghost of sand and whatever else he’d brought back from god knows where.

Soap exhaled into the space he’d left. The lamp buzzed faintly overhead, a tired hum that filled the silence like static. He had two options when Ghost was like this: leave the man the fuck alone until morning, or take care of him — manually force his brain to switch off.

The latter always put Soap's mind more at ease.

The shower started up — a low hiss, the pipes rattling in the walls. Soap leaned back on his hands, watching the thin line of light under the bathroom door. The air began to thicken with steam that crept out, curling through the cold room, smelling faintly of soap.

He kicked off his boots. Peeled his shirt over his head. His skin was scattered with old nicks and bruises — the kind that never had time to fade before new ones replaced them. He shed his trousers next, left in just his boxers, sitting on the edge of the bed facing that sliver of light.

Minutes passed. The sound of water stopped, replaced by the squeal of the tap and the muted thud of Ghost stepping out.

The door opened.

Ghost filled the frame again, broader somehow in the dimness. The mask was gone, tossed somewhere behind him; his face was half in shadow, wet hair slicked back against his head. He wasn’t the type to be beautiful, not in any obvious way, but there was something arresting about him — the severity of his mouth, the deep-set eyes that looked like they hadn’t known rest in, well, ever. Water still ran from his hair down the side of his neck, down his back to the towel slung low around his waist.

His skin carried the faint pallor of exhaustion, the tightness of someone too long on edge. His chest was marked by old scars that disappeared into shadow — one that ran oblique across his ribs, a memory of an old knife wound; another pale patch along his shoulder.

Soap caught himself staring. He didn’t stop.

Ghost’s gaze swept the room — the half-open locker, the cluttered table, the waiting man on the bed. His expression barely moved, but something in his eyes shifted; a quiet recognition, a flicker of understanding between exhaustion and need.

“You’re still up,” Ghost said finally, quieter now.

“Mhm,” Soap answered, leaning back just a little. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Ghost huffed through his nose, not quite a laugh. He ran a hand through his wet hair - the dampness turning it closer to brown than its usual sandy blond. For a moment he stood there, bare feet on the carpet, breathing slow like he was still winding down from whatever hell he’d just walked out of.

Soap didn’t move. He just watched him — the way the muscles along Ghost’s shoulders tensed and eased, the faint tremor in his hands that betrayed more than his voice ever could. Steam still clung to his skin, a thin sheen of heat that caught the light in slow-moving beads, tracing the curve of his spine, the ridges of old scars. His breathing was heavy but contained, the kind that came from holding himself too tight for too long.

Finally, Soap spoke. “C’mon, Simon. Sit down before you collapse.”

The name pulled Ghost’s gaze up. His eyes sharpened, focus sliding back into place as if he were remembering where he was. There was no hostility in it, no question. Just that flicker of awareness, a presence that returned to him by degrees. He stood there a second longer, chest rising and falling, water running down the sharp plane of his collarbone before he finally started forward.

He moved without sound — slow, heavy-footed, each step quiet but final. The room seemed to fold inward with him, the small space shrinking to fit the gravity of his presence.

Soap didn’t back away. He just shifted forward slightly on the bed, the frame creaking beneath him, and gestured to the floor between his knees. His tone dropped, quiet but firm enough to cut through the static air. “I said, sit.”

Something changed in Ghost then — subtle, almost invisible, but it was there. The tension that had coiled up his spine seemed to loosen, replaced by something simpler, quieter. His mind switched off in that split second; the relentless awareness, the fight still caught behind his eyes, dimmed out like someone had stamped on the brakes.

He let the towel fall from his hips, the sound soft, almost inconsequential against the concrete. The movement was unhurried, unceremonious — nothing showy about it, just complete. He knelt quickly. The carpet beneath him was thin, rough against his knees, the kind where it was clear that comfort was an afterthought in its design. His head tilted forward slightly, eyes flicking up through the fringe of wet hair, waiting, just for direction.

Soap looked down at him — at this man who could command a room with silence, who could make entire squads move with a glance — now quiet and still at his feet. There was a flicker of something like satisfaction in Soap’s chest, but it wasn’t cruel; it was steadier, quieter, the relief of watching someone finally let go.

He reached forward, hand hesitating for a heartbeat before it found its place against the back of Ghost’s neck. The skin there was warm and damp, the short hair clinging in uneven strands. Soap’s thumb moved in a slow circle, feeling the steady pulse beneath, the slight tremor of muscle under his touch.

The movement wasn’t forceful, wasn’t soft either — just grounding. A reminder. A way to say you’re here, you’re safe, stop fighting yourself.

“There you go,” Soap murmured, his voice low enough that it barely disturbed the air. “Good boy.”

The effect was immediate. Ghost’s shoulders eased, the rigid line of his spine softening as his breath left him in a quiet exhale. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes dark against the pale skin of his cheeks. The sound he made wasn’t quite a sigh — more like the body’s quiet surrender when it finally stops resisting rest.

Soap’s fingers moved up into his hair, combing through the thick strands with deliberate care. The texture was damp and heavy, still holding the heat from the shower, and his fingers sank easily into it. He moved slowly, tracing small, calming paths over Ghost’s scalp, learning the shape of him through touch alone — the faint ridge of an old scar, the way the muscle at the base of his skull flexed and eased under gentle pressure.

The warmth radiating from Ghost’s skin met the cooler air of the room, a soft contrast that seemed to anchor them both in the moment. Every so often, Soap’s nails dragged just enough to make Ghost’s breath catch, involuntary, before he smoothed the touch away again, calming him back down. The motion became rhythmic, steady — a quiet ritual that filled the silence with something tender.

“That’s a good boy,” Soap murmured, dropping to a soft coo that carried the faintest trace of a grin. “You’re my good boy, aren’t you, puppy?”

The words slipped out like instinct, warm, teasing but gentle. They hung in the air between them for a beat before Ghost reacted — a visible flush spreading high across his cheekbones, pink blooming through the pale of his skin. It climbed up to the tips of his ears, the kind of heat that looked almost out of place on someone who could be so cold in the field.

His breath stuttered once, the muscles along his throat working as though he might speak, but no sound came. Instead, he swallowed, eyes lowering for a moment before lifting again, hesitant but steady. When he looked up, it was with a kind of vulnerability that few ever got to see — eyes half-lidded, uncertain, but open in a way that stripped him bare far more than losing the mask ever could.

He nodded once. Small, accepting.

Soap’s expression softened immediately, the teasing fading into something warmer, heavier. He traced his thumb along Ghost’s jaw, feeling the heat of his blush beneath the calloused pad of his finger. Ghost leaned into it slightly, the motion instinctive, like his body already knew what to do even when his mind lagged behind.

“There he is,” Soap murmured, threaded with that familiar fondness that sat somewhere between command and care. His thumb traced a lazy arc along Ghost’s jawline, feeling the heat blooming there. “Think we should put your collar on, hm?”

Ghost’s throat worked around a swallow; his gaze flicked away, unable to hold Soap’s. The faintest sound escaped him, a low hum that might have been agreement if you knew how to listen. His hands twitched against his thighs, fingers flexing once before he shifted, a subtle motion that pulled his knees closer together, as if trying to hide the reaction his cock was having to the gentle talk.

Soap saw it anyway. He always did.

“Aren’t you just the cutest thing,” he said softly, voice dipping into a tone that almost purred. The words didn’t mock; they soothed, settling over Ghost’s skin like the afterglow of a command well given. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He stood then, the bed creaking quietly as he moved. Ghost didn’t lift his head — he followed with his eyes, the barest tilt of his chin betraying his attention as Soap crossed to the locker. The sound of the metal door opening echoed, followed by the faint clink of hardware.

Soap’s hands rummaged until they found what they were looking for: the black leather collar. Its surface was smooth and worn in places, the kind of wear that came from repetition, not neglect. There was an attachable lead coiled beside it, a small steel clasp that caught the light when he lifted it free.

When Soap turned back, Ghost hadn’t moved. Still kneeling, still quiet, his eyes followed the movement — not with fear, not even with submission, but with the bone-deep trust of a man who only let himself exist like this for one person.

The collar hung loosely from Soap's hand, the leather swaying just enough to brush against his thigh. He stopped in front of Ghost, close enough that the heat from his body reached down and curled around him like invisible smoke.

“Up a bit,” Soap said finally, quiet but commanding. Ghost obeyed immediately, lifting his chin, the line of his throat exposed. His skin was still damp, the pulse visible just beneath the surface.

Soap’s fingers brushed against his neck — warm, steady. He held the collar open, the faint creak of leather accompanying the movement. When he wrapped it around Ghost’s throat, his fingers lingered longer than necessary, tracing the curve where skin met shadow. The buckle clicked softly into place. It wasn’t tight — just firm enough to remind, to anchor.

“There we go,” Soap murmured, thumb sliding over the edge of the collar where it met Ghost’s neck. “Perfect fit, as always.”

Ghost’s eyes clouded over, pupils dilated and dark. His thighs parted slowly, muscles unclenching as if some invisible command had eased through him. The effect of the collar was immediate — physical, visceral — and Soap saw every bit of it. The steady rhythm of Ghost’s breathing faltered, then steadied again.

Between his legs, his cock hung flushed and heavy, the kind of reaction that spoke not of suddenness but inevitability — a response carved by habit and trust. He wasn’t touched, hadn’t been given anything more than a few words and a strip of leather around his throat, and still his body bowed to it.

Soap crouched down, one knee pressing into the rough carpet, his movement smooth and deliberate. The faint jingle of the lead in his hand punctured the quiet — a soft metallic music, the promise of control and care bound up in one sound.

He didn’t attach it right away. Instead, he held it loosely, running his thumb over the clasp — slow, rhythmic motions, the way someone might stroke the spine of a familiar weapon or the edge of a cherished tool. His eyes stayed on Ghost’s face, studying every twitch of muscle, every flicker of breath. The scar along Ghost’s chin caught the light, a pale seam against flushed skin, and Soap traced its line in his mind, cataloguing the small tremors that followed each breath.

“Need somethin’ to fuck, hm?” Soap’s question came out gentle, roughened at the edges by arousal. “S’ okay to be needy. You’ve earned that much.”

Ghost’s breath hitched — a quiet, strangled sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep, primal. It barely made it past his lips, but Soap heard it, felt it in the tension that shuddered through the air between them.

He nodded once, small, hesitant, as though afraid the motion might break the fragile thread holding him together. His eyes flickered downward, then back up again, caught between submission and something far more human — trust, raw and trembling at the edges.

Soap’s expression didn’t shift much, but the faint smile that curved his mouth held something darkly fond. “Good pup,” he murmured, reaching down to clip the lead into place with a soft metallic click that seemed to echo through the small room.

Ghost flinched at the contact, but it wasn’t recoil — it was instinct, the body reacting before the mind caught up. His hands flexed on his thighs, then settled again, obedient. The collar gleamed faintly where the light hit it, a dark ring against the pale stretch of his throat, the buckle resting just below his jaw. A mark of belonging. Of release.

Soap rose slowly, stripping off the last of his clothes — his underwear sliding down his legs in an easy motion until he stood bare, the heat of his body radiating into the cool air. Then he sat back on the bed, legs spread slightly, the soft dip of his cunt glistening in the half-light.

Ghost looked up. His eyes widened just a little, locked on the sight of him. He swallowed, throat working, a low whine escaping before he could stop it. His restraint cracked, the soldier’s composure unraveling one breath at a time.

Soap tilted his head. "Go on. Take your treat.”

Ghost didn’t hesitate again — he surged forward, the motion fluid, desperate. The first drag of his tongue was hot and unrestrained, sliding through the slickness between Soap’s thighs with a guttural sound that might’ve been a groan.

Soap’s hand shot to his hair, fingers curling into the damp strands to steady him, but the sound that left his mouth — a sharp gasp, half a swear — betrayed him. “Christ, good fuckin’ boy.”

Ghost made a noise in response, something high pitched and needy, and kept going. His tongue moved with precision born from repetition — tracing, tasting, learning every pulse of pleasure with animal hunger. His nose pressed close, breath mingling with Soap’s wetness, inhaling like he needed it, like the scent itself was oxygen.

“That’s it,” Soap murmured raggedly, head falling back and lips falling open as he ground his cunt against Ghost's mouth. “Tha' tongue o' yours is perfect.”

Ghost's tongue flicked upward, sucking his clit hard before circling the small bundle of nerves, then sliding lower again, deeper, licking into his hole and at his walls until Soap’s thighs trembled where they sat. Soap’s hand loosened in his hair, stroking instead, thumb brushing along the back of his skull. “Such a good mutt,” he whispered, breaking off into a moan, words slurred with heat and pride.

The praise drew another sound from Ghost — a muffled whimper that vibrated against Soap’s cunt, sending a hot spike of pleasure through his body.

Soap's eyes fluttered shut, face flushed and wet. His breathing grew ragged, his voice slipping lower with each word. “That’s right, puppy… just- fuck just like that. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

Ghost responded with renewed energy, tongue pressing firmer at his clit, until Soap’s hips rolled helplessly into the rhythm he set. The lead trembled in Soap’s grip, a soft chain of sound to accompany the wet, rhythmic noise between them.

His cock twitched where it hung, hard and aching, a steady drip of pre making a mess of the already rough carpet beneath him. He whimpered — high, desperate — the sound slipping out before he could catch it. When he finally pulled back, slick on his chin and eyes dazed, he looked up at Soap with a pleading expression, breath shallow.

Soap saw everything in that look.

He gave the lead a sharp tug, firm and unrelenting, dragging Ghost up and onto the bed without resistance. Ghost scrambled to obey, kneeling between Soap’s spread thighs, hands braced against them as he lined himself up with a kind of frantic need.

Soap gasped the moment he felt the tip press against him, hips arching instinctively. “Fuckin’ hell—” the words came broken, swallowed by a moan as Ghost pushed in, quick and relentless, stretching him open with every inch of his cock.

Ghost keened, the sound hot and breathless as he sank deeper, burying himself to the hilt in the wet heat of Soap’s cunt. Each thrust came hard and deep, hips snapping forward with a purpose that bordered on feral. His grip on Soap’s thighs was bruising, not cruel but a tether to his own sanity. He rutted in with a whine, each stroke slick and messy, the room filled with the wet sounds of their bodies colliding.

Soap clung to the sheets above his head, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted as he took it, gasping with every roll of Ghost’s hips. The fullness bordered on overwhelming — he could feel him everywhere, the drag and stretch of every inch, the pressure deep in his gut as Ghost ground in hard enough to press against spots that made his vision blur.

“M’—fuck, gonna breed you—” Ghost choked against his neck, panting between broken sounds, his voice raw and ruined.

Soap could only moan in response, caught between breath and bliss, his whole body strung tight around the relentless rhythm. Ghost held him open, buried deep, fucking like he had no plans to ever stop. His grip bruised into Soap’s thighs, pushing him down into the mattress, folding him nearly in half as if trying to crawl into him, to fuse their bodies into something singular and consuming. His breath was hot and ragged against Soap’s throat, his teeth scraping along the tendon there before he sank them in.

The bite sent a shock straight through Soap’s core — pain tangled with the overwhelming pleasure already curling deep in his belly. He cried out, high and broken as his cunt clenched hard around Ghost’s cock, the walls spasming uncontrollably as his orgasm hit, sudden and staggering.

His back arched, hips jerking upward, grinding against the relentless pace. His legs trembled where Ghost pinned them, muscles drawn tight as every nerve fired at once. His cunt gushed around the thick length cock him, soaking them both in wet warmth.

But Ghost didn’t stop. If anything, the convulsions of Soap’s release only drove him deeper into frenzy. He fucked through it, groaning with every pulse of tight heat milking his cock, his rhythm losing precision in favour of desperation. His hands gripped harder, pulling Soap flush against him as he buried himself to the hilt again and again, chasing the high with single-minded hunger.

“Gonna fill you up with cum-,” he whined, voice breaking as he rutted somehow harder, erratic. His cock throbbed with each thrust, the pressure building, unbearable, as Soap trembled beneath him, still moaning through the aftershocks, eyelids fluttering with overstimulation.

“Please pup,” Soap breathed, dazed and soft and slurred with want, “do it—fuckin’ fill me—want it, want-”

That did it.

Ghost’s whole body seized, one final thrust burying him so deep it felt like he might break Soap open from the inside. A choked moan, muffled where he bit down into Soap’s shoulder again, and he came with a violent shudder — spilling into Soap’s cunt.

Soap could feel every twitch. Every pulse. His insides flooded with warmth, his walls fluttering helplessly around Ghost’s cock as the other man poured himself into him, breath heaving, chest pressed tight to his own.

Eventually, Ghost let out a shaky breath and began to ease his weight off, careful and slow. His cock slipped free with a lewd, wet sound, and Soap whimpered faintly at the sudden emptiness. Their combined release trickled from between his thighs, warm and messy, sliding down to the ruined sheets.

Ghost sat back on his heels, staring down at the sight like he couldn’t quite believe it — the flush of red blooming across Soap’s skin, the way his thighs trembled and remained parted, the steady drip of cum leaking from his stretched cunt. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the collar still snug at his throat, the lead loose now in Soap’s limp hand.

Soap blinked slowly up at him, lips parted, eyes dazed. He looked well-fucked. Claimed. And satisfied in a way that left no space for doubt.

“Y’did good,” he whispered, the words slurred with exhaustion and affection. “My good boy.”

Chapter Text

“Did you ever experiment with drugs in your youth, Will?”

The question broke the quiet rhythm of their session like a dropped glass. Will looked up, blinking as though dragged from deep water. Across from him, Hannibal sat in his usual composed posture - legs neatly crossed, hands resting lightly on the armrests of his chair, a picture of civility and control. His voice had been calm, almost idle, as if he’d asked about the weather rather than the decay of human inhibition.

The office around them was as precise as the man who inhabited it. The air was rich with the scent of old books and faintly spiced tea. Mahogany shelves lined the walls, filled with volumes that bore titles in Latin and French, their leather bindings softened by use. Between them hung anatomical sketches in gilt frames, their fine ink lines tracing the fragile structures beneath the skin. Everything gleamed with deliberate order — the subtle reflection on the polished desk, the glint of a scalpel-shaped letter opener, the slow pulse of the metronome ticking on the side table.

Will shifted in his seat. The leather creaked beneath him, breaking the stillness for a moment. He searched Hannibal’s face for intent - some flicker of irony, amusement, judgment - but found only that familiar, unreadable serenity. The doctor’s eyes were steady and bright, a shade too knowing, like a mirror that returned more than it reflected.

“I wasn’t the type,” Will said finally. His tone was flat, defensive in its restraint. “Too busy trying to stay inside my own head, rather than scramble it.”

Hannibal smiled - not with warmth, but with a subtle tightening of the lips, the kind of smile meant to invite confession. “And yet,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “one might argue that abstaining can be its own experiment. Deprivation sharpens the senses, does it not?”

The metronome ticked on, patient and inevitable.

Will looked away, toward the tall windows veiled with soft light, and thought - perhaps not for the first time - that Hannibal Lecter’s office always felt like a place where truth could be dissected without anaesthesia.

“Why do you bring it up?” Will asked at last, his voice low, edged with suspicion. He kept his eyes on the floor, not ready to meet Hannibal’s gaze. He had learned that every question the man asked was a trap carefully disguised as curiosity.

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, as though studying the way the question had left Will’s lips. “I think it would be beneficial for you to see corners of your mind you usually don’t have access to,” he said. His tone was as gentle as a surgeon’s touch, almost soothing. That gentleness always unsettled Will more than overt manipulation ever could.

Will frowned. “You want me to do drugs?” He said the word like it didn’t belong in the same air as Hannibal’s immaculate office, as if it were too crude to occupy the same sentence as his name.

“I want you to do this drug,” Hannibal corrected, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He drew out a small silver case, and from it, he produced a single capsule—pale, almost pearlescent, resting in his palm like something precious.

Will stared at it, then at Hannibal. “MDMA,” he murmured, not quite a question. He recognised it immediately - he’d seen it before, back when he was profiling college dealers and suburban burnouts.

“Correct,” Hannibal said. “Commonly debased as a party drug. Yet, in a controlled setting, it has the potential to dissolve fear, to untangle the knots of trauma, to allow empathy - true empathy - to emerge unguarded.” He elaborated, the words slowing as he watched Will react. “Wouldn’t you like to know what your mind sounds like when it isn’t afraid of itself?”

Will exhaled through his nose, steady but wary. “You’re suggesting I roll in your office. With you.”

“I am suggesting,” Hannibal replied, unshaken, “that you allow me to guide you through a controlled psychological exploration. There will be no chaos here. Only illumination.”

The metronome on the side table ticked, measured and indifferent. Each swing of its slender arm seemed to echo the pulse in Will’s throat. He looked again at the capsule in Hannibal’s hand - small, harmless - looking, glinting faintly like a lure at the end of a hook.

“Fine. Pass it here,” Will said, his tone caught somewhere between resignation and defiance. He extended his hand, palm up, fingers trembling just enough for it to be noticeable.

Hannibal did not move immediately. He regarded Will’s outstretched hand with the mild curiosity one might reserve for a patient creature attempting trust. Then, with slow precision, he placed the capsule in Will’s palm.

“Take your time,” Hannibal said softly. “You are not being coerced.”

Will gave a humourless huff. “You never have to coerce me, do you? You just... make me curious enough to destroy myself.”

“Curiosity is the beginning of understanding.”

Will rolled the capsule between his fingers. It was lighter than he expected, absurdly so for something that might open doors best left sealed. He stared at it for a long moment, feeling the weight of Hannibal’s gaze pressing against him, heavy as the air in the room.

Finally, he placed it on his tongue and swallowed dry.

Hannibal’s expression flickered with approval - subtle, predatory. “Good,” he commented. “Now, sit back. The onset will be gentle. I’ve prepared tea - chamomile, to keep your body at ease.”

Will leaned against the back of the chair, his heartbeat quickening as though his body already anticipated the shift. The ticking metronome filled the silence between them.

As minutes passed, the edges of the world began to blur. The light from the window seemed to warm, growing soft and liquid. Hannibal’s voice came through the haze like music played underwater.

“What do you feel?”

Will blinked, the room bending faintly around the edges of his vision. “Everything,” he said slowly, his voice barely more than breath. “Like I’m made of static.” He laughed once—quiet, startled—as though the sound had escaped someone else’s throat.

“I want you to list specifics,” Hannibal said, his tone clipped. His eyes, however, betrayed a glint of amusement. He leaned forward slightly in his chair, elbows on his knees, as though ready to take notes on a rare experiment.

Will closed his eyes for a moment, his breathing uneven but deep. The air itself felt textured, brushing against his skin like fine silk. “My hands,” he murmured. “They’re buzzing. It’s like every nerve’s been turned on - no, like they’re... singing.” He flexed his fingers, watching the movement as though it belonged to someone else. “There’s heat in my palms. I can feel my heartbeat in them.”

“Good,” Hannibal said quietly. “Continue.”

“My chest feels...” Will frowned, groping for words. “Open. Too open. Like my ribs are pulling apart to make space for something bigger. It’s uncomfortable - but also... right? My lungs feel raw. Every breath feels like the first one I’ve ever taken.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “Do you feel fear?”

Will shook his head slowly, a faint smile touching his lips. “No. That’s the strange part. It’s all the usual things - heart racing, pulse in my throat - but there’s no fear attached. It’s just... sensation. Pure data.” He glanced at Hannibal, pupils wide, gaze unguarded. “My mouth tastes like copper. My skin’s too tight. My stomach feels like it’s dissolving.”

He hesitated, his voice softening. “And my heart - it’s beating with something. Not just for me. Like the air in here’s alive, like I can feel you breathing too.”

A quiet pause followed. Hannibal’s lips parted slightly, though he said nothing for a moment. Then, with the same calm he might use in surgery, he replied, “Empathy, Will. Unfiltered. The walls between you and the world are thinning.”

Will laughed again, breathless. “You make it sound poetic. It feels like I’m falling apart.”

“Transformation often does,” Hannibal said, standing to pour him a glass of water. The sound of liquid against glass was crystalline, painfully vivid. He set it on the table before Will, then leaned close enough that Will could smell the faint trace of his aftershave — something woody, clean, expensive.

“Tell me,” Hannibal asked, voice low and deliberate, “what does it feel like when you look at me?”

Will raised his gaze, standing to meet Hannibal’s eye-line. His pupils had devoured the blue of his irises, leaving only the dark gleam of dilation and wonder. He stared for a long time, his expression unmoored, trying to separate sensation from thought, meaning from impulse. He failed completely.

“It feels,” Will said finally, his voice trembling with awe, “like standing too close to a fire and realising you don’t want to move away.”

A small, satisfied hum escaped Hannibal, the sound of a man confirming a theory long suspected. “You’re rolling, Will,” he murmured, stepping closer.

They stood far too near to be considered professional - close enough that the warmth of Hannibal’s breath brushed against Will’s cheek, close enough that Will could see the subtle pulse at his throat, steady and confident.

“Pretty sure you’re already in unethical territory by giving me drugs,” Will managed, though the words came out more like a confession than an accusation.

“Right you are,” Hannibal replied softly.

The distance between them was barely measurable. Up close, Hannibal was immaculate and inhumanly composed. His features, so symmetrical they almost defied nature, seemed carved from something finer than flesh. The light caught the faint sheen of his skin, the faint scar at his jawline that Will had never noticed before. His eyes - deep, reflective, the colour of old copper - seemed to pull at the edges of Will’s perception, reshaping the room around them.

Will’s breath hitched. Everything about Hannibal was amplified under the drug - the way his suit seemed impossibly crisp, the way his voice lingered in the air even after he’d stopped speaking, the faint scent of sandalwood that clung to him. It wasn’t just attraction; it was gravity, a sensory pull that rooted Will to the floor.

“You’re-” Will began, then stopped. His voice failed him. He swallowed, and the silence between them became a living thing. “You’re too much,” he whispered instead.

Hannibal tilted his head, studying him the way a painter might study his subject. “Too much... what?”

Will blinked, his mouth dry. “Presence. You fill the whole room. It’s-” He broke off with a laugh, nervous, breathless. “I can feel my skin reacting to you. Like static again. Like you’re... in my bloodstream.”

Hannibal smiled faintly, not out of vanity but recognition. “That’s the body’s way of acknowledging power, Will. What you feel is surrender.”

Will’s heart kicked against his ribs, a heavy, rhythmic warning he couldn’t heed. “You make that sound like a good thing.”

Hannibal’s gaze softened, though his eyes gleamed with something that could never be called gentle. “In the right context,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, “it is.”

For a moment, the ticking metronome vanished from Will’s awareness. There was only the space between them - tense, electric, alive - and the terrible, intoxicating realisation that he no longer wanted to pull away.

He leaned in first, knowing Hannibal wouldn’t. That was how their game worked - Will always took the step, and Hannibal always allowed it. It gave Will the illusion of choice, of control, a fragile thread of autonomy that Hannibal let him hold like a lead.

When their lips met, the world fractured into sensation. Everything was amplified - the warmth, the pressure, the faint scratch of stubble shared between them. The kiss was not gentle. It was hungry, as though the static that had filled Will’s veins finally found its outlet. His hands trembled at Hannibal’s collar, unsure whether to pull him closer or push him away.

Hannibal didn’t move at first. He let Will’s need unfold against him, studying it, savouring it, until he finally responded - a subtle tilt of the head, a hand at the back of Will’s neck, fingers splaying through his curls with surgical precision. The touch was grounding and consuming all at once.

Will shuddered, the contact flooding his senses. Every nerve lit up, his skin a map of live wires. The air around them pulsed, thick with warmth. He could taste something metallic and sweet, could feel Hannibal’s composure vibrating beneath the surface like a held breath.

When they broke apart, Will stumbled back half a step, chest heaving, pupils still wide and dark. “You knew this would happen,” he said, his voice rough, almost accusing.

Hannibal’s expression remained calm. “I suspected,” he murmured, smoothing the cuff of his sleeve as if returning to order after a small, anticipated chaos. “The drug removes fear, not instinct. I only provided an environment in which honesty could emerge.”

Will laughed - a short, breathless sound that was equal parts disbelief and surrender. “You call that honesty?”

“I call it clarity,” Hannibal replied, stepping forward again, close enough that Will could feel the warmth radiating from him. “For once, your body spoke without interference from your conscience.”

Will wanted to retort, to reclaim some distance, but his voice faltered. The world still shimmered at the edges, and Hannibal was the only fixed point in it - the axis around which everything turned.

Hannibal’s hand hovered between them for a moment, deliberate and patient, as though granting Will one final chance to step away. But Will didn’t. Couldn’t. His pulse was a hammer in his ears, too fast, too loud, and when Hannibal’s palm settled over the front of his trousers, the contact sent a shudder through him so violent that he gasped.

The touch was neither hurried nor crude. It was exploratory - an assessment, a study. Hannibal’s fingers traced the heat of Will's cock beneath the fabric, cataloguing every reaction. Will’s breath hitched, the muscles in his abdomen tightening reflexively. His vision swam, each breath stretching into eternity.

His mind, usually so quick, so crowded with empathy and noise, had gone silent except for the pulse thrumming through him.

Hannibal’s eyes never left his face. “Breathe,” he murmured, low and steady, the command of a man accustomed to obedience. “You are experiencing intimacy without fear. Observe it. Don’t recoil from it.”

Will swallowed hard. His body obeyed before his mind could catch up; he drew in a measured, shaky breath. His hips shifted forward, betraying a need he could no longer contain, his body seeking more of that impossible contact. Every nerve flared like a struck match, each point of touch drawing bright lines through his awareness.

“Recklessness is only courage without structure,” Hannibal murmured. “I am giving you the structure.” His hands mapped Will’s waist, steadying, claiming. “You are safe here.”

Then, with unhurried precision, Hannibal sank to his knees.

The movement was fluid, reverent, as if he were performing a rite rather than indulging in desire. His palms remained on Will’s hips, firm and grounding, holding him like a tether to reality. Will’s breath caught in his throat, unsteady and shallow. The sight of Hannibal there - kneeling, composed, eyes lifted with intimate - struck him like a blow.

“May I?” Hannibal asked.

Will nodded, wordless.

Hannibal’s hands moved with patience, unbuttoning Will’s trousers as though unwrapping a gift that demanded attention, not haste, his fingers warm against Will’s fevered skin. He drew the fabric of his trousers and boxers down with care, his eyes never leaving Will’s face, watching every flicker of expression as though reading scripture.

Will's head tipped back involuntarily, a breathless sound escaping him when Hannibal’s mouth brushed against the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen — a ghost of a kiss, more suggestion than act. The anticipation strung him taut, made every moment stretch out unbearably.

“You’re trembling,” Hannibal said softly, not mockingly. His breath stirred against Will’s skin.

“I know,” Will managed, his voice barely there. “I can’t stop it.”

“You don’t need to.” Hannibal’s tone was gentle, steady - soothing in the way a blade might soothe just before it breaks the skin. “The body knows truths the mind resists.”

Will followed Hannibal's gaze as he finally looked down, breath catching as his eyes settled on his desperately hard cock. There was nothing clinical about Hannibal’s stare now; it was intense, intimate, the kind of attention that could reduce a man to raw nerve endings. Will felt suddenly transparent, as if the heat of that gaze could peel his skin away, layer by layer, until nothing remained.

Hannibal leaned in with a slowness that bordered on ceremonial. Will's entire body tensed, suspended in that unbearable pause - until contact shattered it all.

The first touch was devastating.

Hannibal’s lips closed around the tip with deliberate grace, not a graze or a tease, but full contact—hot, wet, enveloping. Will gasped, the sound ripped from him without warning. His hands found Hannibal’s shoulders in desperation, gripping hard, as if letting go might send him spiralling out of his body altogether. Every inch of him snapped taut with sensation. His vision blurred at the edges. There was no room left for thought - only the immediate, obliterating presence of his mouth.

Hannibal was slow, methodical. His tongue traced the underside of the shaft with scholarly precision, mapping veins and ridges like cartography. He adjusted his angle by fractions, listening to each of Will’s staggered breaths, each stifled moan. His hands on Will’s hips were steady, authoritative - guiding, controlling, anchoring.

Will’s knees nearly gave out again, but Hannibal anticipated it - his grip tightening, unyielding. He refused to let Will fall. There was a terrifying comfort in that: to be consumed, but never abandoned.

The world collapsed inward. There was only this - this unbearable focus. Hannibal wasn’t performing; he was exploring. Studying. Worshipping.

Will’s head fell back. He moaned, broken and vulnerable, and the sound echoed in the quiet like a confession. His thighs trembled, breath coming in shallow, frantic bursts. He couldn’t contain the flood moving through him - pleasure that felt too big for his body to hold.

Hannibal’s eyes flicked upward, catching Will’s in the midst of it all. Their gazes locked, and Will’s chest clenched tight around the unbearable intimacy of it. He saw no mockery there, no triumph—only the calm, focused hunger of a man watching something beautiful come apart.

He was a study in collapse. And Hannibal was still learning.

Hannibal’s mouth was tight, hot, wet. Saliva gathered at the corners of his lips, glinting as it dripped down his chin. His cheeks hollowed as he drew Will deeper, slow at first, measured as though calibrating the exact point between pain and bliss.

Will whined, the sound breaking from him unbidden. His hips jerked forward in a helpless thrust, instinct overriding any thought of restraint. Hannibal didn’t flinch. If anything, he welcomed it. He adjusted, throat relaxing, and then - impossibly - took him all the way in. Will felt the back of Hannibal’s throat flex and yield around him without so much as a gag.

It undid him.

His fingers slid from Hannibal’s shoulders into his hair, curling hard in the grey strands. He began to move without realising it, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper, fucking into his throat, as if his body had chosen the rhythm long before his mind gave permission.

Hannibal stayed utterly steady. His hands tightened on Will’s hips, not to restrain but to guide, to control the pace of Will’s surrender. He let Will drive into his mouth, every motion of his tongue and jaw calculated to accommodate, to encourage, to push him closer to the edge.

Will’s breath came ragged, panting. He couldn’t look away. The sight of Hannibal on his knees, composed even now, his eyes flicking upward in cool, deliberate intervals - it was too much. The intimacy of it burned.

His voice cracked on a moan, raw and astonished. “God-” His grip in Hannibal’s hair tightened, pulling, but Hannibal only pressed him deeper, his hands urging Will’s hips forward until the thrusts became an unsteady, shuddering rhythm.

When Hannibal groaned around him, the sound was resonant, a vibration that rippled up through Will’s body and made his knees buckle. He gasped, the noise jagged and unsteady, teetering on the edge of incoherence.

“Christ- I can’t-” The words tore from his throat, half-plea, half-warning, before dissolving into a sharp, helpless sound as Hannibal swallowed him deeper still. The muscles of his throat flexed rhythmically, a heady, devastating pulse around Will’s cock that sent white heat blooming behind his eyes.

His head tipped back, vision fracturing, breath coming in ragged pulls. He clutched at Hannibal’s hair with one hand, the other gripping his shoulder as though it were the only solid thing left in the world. He felt himself lose the last threads of control, hips jerking forward as he held Hannibal down on him, surrendering to the inevitable.

He came with a shudder that shook him from the inside out, panting, a broken sound escaping his lips as the room blurred into heat and static. Hannibal took it all, unflinching, swallowing with unhurried practice, hands still firm on Will’s hips, grounding him through the aftershocks.

When it was over, Will swayed, his thighs trembling. Hannibal eased back slowly, letting him slip free with an obscene, wet sound. A thin line of saliva and release stretched between his lips and Will’s skin before it broke.

Hannibal rose with deliberate grace, not wiping his mouth, his expression composed but faintly flushed. He placed one steadying hand at the back of Will’s neck, thumb brushing the damp hair at his nape, an anchor after the storm.

“Sit,” he murmured, his tone as calm as ever, though his eyes burned with something unreadable. “Breathe. Observe. Remember how it feels to be unafraid.”

Will collapsed back into the chair, body still quivering. The world around him felt different now - brighter, as though some door had been kicked open in his mind and left swinging.

Hannibal poured him water with the same unhurried care as before and set the glass within reach. “Good,” he said quietly, as if marking the end of an experiment. “Now, tell me what you learned.”

Chapter Text

Hannibal loves when Will cries.

Not out of mere cruelty, nor for the satisfaction of power - though both play their parts. No, it’s something more refined. The way Will’s breath catches in his throat, the tremor in his lips as he fights it - always fights it - until the tears arrive anyway. Hannibal sees it as a kind of surrender. A raw unveiling. A moment of terrible honesty.

He doesn’t seek to destroy Will. That would be brutish, unimaginative. Instead, he peels him open slowly, with words that settle in the marrow and questions that turn over like blades. He touches no weapon, raises no hand - but he knows where to press, how to draw out the ache. Sometimes it's a memory he resurrects with surgical precision. Sometimes, it's a truth Will has spent years burying under layers of decency.

The tears never fall in spectacle. Will turns his head, bites down on a trembling lip, holds himself together with white-knuckled fingers. But Hannibal sees everything. The shine in his eyes. The fissure of his voice. The collapse behind the stare.

In those moments, Hannibal does not smile. That would cheapen it. He watches. Absorbs. Cherishes. He considers Will’s pain the most honest version of him - the version untouched by performance or pretence.

And perhaps, in some recess of himself even he cannot fully access, he hopes Will will understand. That he’ll stop seeing his tears as defeat, and start recognising them as communion. Intimate. Earned.

He loves it even more when Will cries during sex.

Not because of dominance - though the structure of their bodies speaks in the grammar of control - but because it is when Will is most unguarded, most alive. Hannibal lies back, hands resting lightly on Will’s hips, offering no force, only presence. Will’s thighs tremble from the rhythm he’s set, muscles taut with exertion and desire, but it’s the look in his eyes that Hannibal fixates on: dilated, dazed, already glassy with unshed tears.

The tears are not from pain. Not exactly. They’re born from the unbearable convergence of pleasure and shame, from the slow and brutal undoing of every defence Will has ever built. Hannibal watches, transfixed, as one slides down Will’s cheek - quiet, hot, and holy.

Will tries to hide it, as always. He tilts his head away, hair falling forward like a curtain. But Hannibal reaches up, brushes it aside with a gentleness so at odds with the brutal rhythm pulsing between them. His fingers linger at Will’s temple, tender and reverent.

“Don’t look away,” Hannibal says, near a whisper. “I want to see you.”

And Will - sweet, furious, breaking Will - does. He meets Hannibal’s gaze through the shimmer of his tears, breath stuttering on a moan, and Hannibal feels it like a wound. Because in that moment, Will is not just his. He is his own - utterly raw, utterly human, and still choosing to stay.

Will is flushed with exertion, sweat pooling at his collarbones, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. His skin glows, painted in strokes of red and shadow - neck speckled with heat, thighs trembling as he moves, sinking down on Hannibal’s cock, his own dick trapped between their bodies, hard and leaking against Hannibal’s abdomen.

His curls are damp, disheveled, clinging to his forehead, framing a face that holds far too much at once. His jaw is clenched with the effort of control, but his eyes betray him. They’re wide, wet, shimmering - not with fragility, but with the unbearable weight of feeling. Tears sit unshed at the corners, clinging stubbornly until they spill, quietly, with no fanfare.

He doesn’t cry like someone asking to be seen. He cries like someone who can’t stop it anymore.

And to Hannibal, it is beautiful - devastatingly beautiful. Each tremor of Will’s thighs, each bitten-back sound, each tear sliding down his flushed cheek is another note in a symphony Hannibal wants to consume with his eyes, his hands, his mouth.

His body moves with purpose, but his expression is caught in contradiction: the open mouth caught mid-moan, the furrow in his brow that suggests he hates how good it feels, or hates that it’s with Hannibal, or hates that it matters at all. There’s a kind of fury in him - not directed outward, but turned inward, like he’s angry at himself for needing this, for wanting it, for what it’s revealing about him.

Hannibal drinks it in. His hands, still resting lightly at Will’s hips, tighten imperceptibly - not to control, but to steady, as though grounding himself against the surge of desire tearing through him. Every tear, every tremor, every unwilling surrender only sharpens his hunger. Will’s rage, his shame, his pleasure - it’s all a living thing under Hannibal’s hands, and Hannibal finds himself reverent in its presence, intoxicated by the raw, unfiltered truth of him.

Will’s movements are increasingly erratic, the rhythm breaking down under the weight of sensation. His thighs shake as he rides Hannibal, every downward motion punctuated by a soft, involuntary sound—half whimper, half curse. His cock, pressed hard between their slick bodies, leaks across Hannibal’s skin, twitching with every deep thrust that nudges his prostate and sends another shock of white-hot pleasure up his spine.

And Hannibal, beneath him, is a study in stillness and focus - every inch of his body tuned to Will’s unraveling. The tension in his arms, the way his abdomen contracts with every bounce, the hitch in his own breathing - it all speaks to how close he is to losing control. But he holds on, not for himself, but for Will. Because this is not a conquest. This is communion.

Will leans forward suddenly, collapsing against him, forehead pressing to Hannibal’s shoulder, hands fisting in the sheets. His body tightens, spasms, and a broken sob tears from his throat as he comes - hot and helpless - between them. Hannibal’s name slips from his mouth like a confession, and Hannibal feels it like an echo inside his chest.

He holds him through it. Through the trembling, through the tears that don’t stop, through the small, shamed gasps that follow pleasure’s aftermath. His own release comes moments later, buried deep inside Will with a silent groan, his body bowing up before falling back, spent but grounded, anchored in something far greater than flesh.

Will stays where he is, curled against Hannibal’s chest like he's on the edge of sleep. Hannibal strokes a hand through his damp curls, fingers gentle, almost trembling.

There is no victory in his touch.

Only awe. Only hunger, of the kind that has nothing to do with appetite and everything to do with reverence.

Because Hannibal loves when Will cries - not for what it gives him, but for what it means. For the truth it reveals. For the mirror it holds up to the painful miracle of being human. And in those tears, in those trembling, furious gasps, Hannibal sees not a broken man - but one who is finally, irreparably, alive.

Chapter Text

To put it bluntly, Soap was a self-certified pervert. Every spare moment he had, his mind drifted to jerking off. Not in a way that interfered with his life-he never skipped a shift, never bailed on his mates, never let it interfere with duty. But god, he loved edging.

There was something about the denial that thrilled him: lying back on his bed, one hand wrapped around his cock, teasing himself for as long as he could bear it. He’d stroke until his shaft was slick with pre-cum, leaking messily over his fingers, never letting himself tip over that edge. Orgasm wasn’t the goal-it was the unbearable tension, the tightness in his gut, the pulse in his cock begging for release that kept him going.

He lost track of how many times he’d had to stuff himself into his waistband, still throbbing and half-hard, just to keep his arousal hidden as he went about his day. The longer he stayed edged, the hornier he became-stupidly, obscenely horny.

Their shared barracks room was compact and utilitarian: metal lockers lined one wall, a shared desk sat pushed up beneath a small window, and the two single beds were arranged opposite each other on either side of the room with barely a stride’s width between. No real privacy. No partitions. Just Ghost on his side, and Soap on his, separated by a strip of floor and a silent agreement not to ask questions.

Soap’s bed was always messier - sheets twisted, blankets half - kicked off, the pillow crumpled from restless nights.

Sharing with Ghost had complicated things. At first, Soap made an effort to be discreet - only jerking off when Ghost was gone, or late at night when he assumed the man was asleep. But once he realised Ghost wasn’t reacting - wasn’t saying a damn word - Soap got bolder.

Eventually, he stopped pretending.

He’d lie back in bed while Ghost scrolled through intel on his phone, a blanket thrown lazily over his lap, movements slow and careful beneath it. His breath stayed quiet, measured. His eyes would flick occasionally toward Ghost, but the other man never looked up. Never even acknowledged it.

And that only made it worse.

The blanket was the first thing to go.

He stopped hiding under it entirely, one night deciding that if Ghost really didn’t care, then why bother? He lay openly on his bed, hand wrapped around his cock, lazily jerking off with his fly tugged halfway down, hips giving little bucking thrusts into his fist. And still-nothing. No scolding. No glare. Just Ghost, reading in silence.

So Soap escalated.

Soon he was stripping from the waist down, lounging on his bed with his thighs spread shamelessly, cock hard and slick in his fist. He’d edge himself slowly, then quickly, then slow again-playing with his sensitivity like a toy, moaning under his breath, sometimes for hours. His breaths would stutter, his chest rising and falling in waves of frustration and lust, and still, Ghost remained silent across the room.

Things finally changed one evening.

It was about 9pm, and Soap had been alone in their room for about an hour - and of course, like usual, he was jerking off. Except this time, he’d gone further. He was completely naked, skin flushed and glistening with sweat, his body sprawled across the rumpled sheets. His hips rolled into his fist, cock twitching and leaking, balls heavy and full, his other hand gripping the duvet like it might keep him grounded.

He moaned - soft, breathy, desperate little noises that slipped past his lips as his pace quickened. He was close, right on the edge, aching with it. So lost in the haze of pleasure, he didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t hear the quiet footsteps. Not until his eyes blinked open - glazed, unfocused - and landed on the silhouette sitting across from him.

Ghost.

Not just standing awkwardly in the doorway. Not caught mid-turn like he’d just come in. No-he was seated on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, watching.

Casually.

Like Soap was a film he’d seen before, but this time he was paying attention to the details.

For a full second, Soap froze. Heart thudding, hand stilled mid-stroke, breath caught painfully in his throat. Panic surged, hot and electric-but it wasn’t embarrassment.

It was arousal. Blistering, all-consuming arousal.

“You done?” Ghost asked, unbothered.

Soap swallowed hard. “...No.”

Ghost nodded, like that was the expected answer. Like it was fine. “Then keep going.”

Soap stared, disbelieving-but Ghost didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Just held his gaze, eyes dark and heavy, expression hidden beneath that skull print.

So, Soap obeyed.

Slowly, he resumed moving, eyes locked on Ghost’s the whole time. Every stroke felt magnified under that stare, every breath loud in the silence. His thighs trembled, his cock flushed dark red, his stomach tensed as pleasure surged back with a vengeance.

Ghost sat like a statue, unmoving except for the slow curl of his fingers between his knees. Watching. Studying. Approving.

That was, until, his hands moved to his fly.

Ghost unbuttoned his cargos quickly, then dragged the zipper down with a rasping sound. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers and pulled out his cock-half-hard, thick, veined, heavy in his palm. He wrapped a hand around it and gave a teasing, deliberate squeeze, eyes never leaving Soap’s.

Soap whimpered-actually whimpered-and his hand sped up instinctively, hips twitching at the sight of Ghost touching himself. There was nothing performative about it. Ghost wasn't showing off. He was indulging. Participating. Letting Soap see it. And somehow, that was even filthier.

Ghost’s thumb dragged over the head of his dick, spreading the pre-cum slicking the tip, lazy and controlled. His breathing deepened just slightly as he watched Soap come undone.

“You on the edge?” he asked, smirk evident in his voice, quiet and curious.

Soap nodded, frantic, his chest rising and falling with short, panting gasps. “Fuck-yeah, I’m-”

“Don’t,” Ghost cut in, tone dangerous, eyes boring into him.

Soap groaned, the sound punched out of him, hips stuttering as he forced himself to ease up, holding back by a thread. His whole body quaked with need, muscles tense, every nerve on fire.

Ghost’s hand moved slowly up and down his own cock. “Wanna see you hold it. Just a little longer.”

Soap whimpered, back arching off the bed like a bow drawn too tight, thighs falling apart shamelessly, skin flushed and slick with sweat. His cock throbbed in his grip, painfully hard, twitching with every ragged breath he took. His stomach tensed, hips giving erratic little thrusts into his hand, chasing the edge he’d been denied too many times tonight already.

"Fuck." Ghost huffed, voice thick with arousal, a drop of pre-come welling up at the head of his cock and rolling slowly down the shaft. He watched it absently, then smeared it with his thumb, spreading it over the flushed tip. “You’re a little fuckin’ freak, y'know that?”

Soap groaned, a deep, wrecked sound from the back of his throat. “J-just love edging-ah-” he gasped, his words dissolving into a high, desperate keen as his grip tightened instinctively. “Not my fault-fuck-not my fault we share a room-”

Ghost’s eyes dragged over Soap’s spread thighs, the flushed skin, the quivering muscles, the obscene shine of slick on his cock. “D’you jerk off anywhere else?” he asked. “Or just here?”

“Hhn- everywhere-” Soap choked out, head tilting back against the pillow as his body trembled. “Everywhere I won’t get caught- fuckin’ hell- bathroom, locker room- once in a goddamn bush behind the motor pool- couldn’t help it- been edged for so fuckin' long-”

Ghost let out a disbelieving laugh. “Jesus, Johnny.”

Soap’s hips lifted helplessly off the bed, his hand stuttering on his cock. “You don’t get it— hurts, hurts so good—”

“I said hold it.”

That voice - calm, commanding, unyielding - cut straight through the haze clouding Soap’s brain. He whimpered, hand going still even as his dick jumped in his grip, leaking over his fist. His entire body screamed with the need to come, every nerve set on fire, every muscle straining not to fall over the edge.

Ghost’s stroking slowed, his movements more measured now, as though savouring the moment. His eyes never left Soap. “That’s it. Good lad. Look at you. All worked up and nowhere to go.”

Soap turned his head, eyes glassy and wild, lips parted around shallow gasps. "It- god- ah never want to stop..." he trailed off into an incomprehensible moan.

Ghost huffed, the sound rough and amused. “Yeah? Wanna stay edged forever, Johnny? Keep those balls nice and full, your cock leakin’ in your underwear, drippin’ for days?” His voice was a growl now, jerking himself faster, the slick, wet sounds of his fist moving over his cock filling the room obscenely.

Soap whimpered - loud, high, desperate - and nodded frantically, his eyes locked on the thick length of Ghost’s cock pumping in his fist. His own hand moved almost mindlessly now, like his body had long since taken over, rutting up into his grip as though the motion alone would bring relief.

Ghost let out a breathless laugh at the pathetic, wrecked sound. “When was the last time you even came?”

Soap’s eyes fluttered, lips trembling before he managed to choke out, “Couple months a-ago.”

Ghost was clearly surprised - but also deeply, visibly pleased. “Months?” he echoed. “No wonder you’re such a fuckin’ mess.”

Soap’s thighs shook as he pressed himself harder into his own fist, his entire body tense and glistening with sweat. His dick was flushed an angry red, leaking continuously, twitching at even the barest shift of his fingers. His balls were tight against his body, aching, swollen with the weight of every orgasm he’d denied himself.

“Tell me,” Ghost said, slowing his pace again, making a show of dragging his hand up the length of his cock. “You edge yourself right before drills? Before deployment? Do you get off on the ache while you’re in the field, dick straining in your kit?”

Soap let out a cracked sound - half moan, half sob - his free hand fisting the sheets beneath him. “Yes-fuck, yes- hurts so good- can’t stop- feels like I’ll fucking die if I don’t-”

“But you don’t,” Ghost cut in, gaze hungry. “You just keep going, don’t you? Walk around leaking, needy, hard- pretending you’re fine when all you want is to fuck your fist like a desperate little bitch.”

Soap let out a long, shuddering groan, hips stuttering as he neared the edge again—too close, too fast. His entire body screamed for release, muscles locking up, breath hitching, thighs trembling violently.

Ghost saw it—read it in the way Soap’s chest rose and fell in frantic bursts, the way his eyes glazed over in panic and pleasure.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The command hit like a shockwave. Soap immediately tore his hand away from his cock, teeth clenched so tightly it ached. His body bucked with the momentum of denial, thighs seizing, the fire in his gut twisting tighter, crueler. His cock stood, twitching between his legs, drooling a fresh ribbon of pre-come down the aching shaft.

He let out a pitiful whimper - broken, humiliated, utterly wrecked - as he stared down at the mess he’d made. His skin glistened, muscles taut, every breath a gasp through parted lips. He could feel it - right there - hovering on the edge like a blade above his throat. His whole body begged to let go.

But he didn’t.

Couldn’t.

“You’re really fuckin’ pathetic like this,” Ghost murmured, stroking himself slowly again, long pulls from base to tip. “You like this, don’t you? Bein’ told no. Bein’ kept right on the edge until you’re useless with it.”

Soap’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, a whine catching in his throat. “I- yes- fuck, yes, I love it- hurts, but- feels so good- can’t think- can’t breathe- ”

Ghost stood up and stepped closer, cock still in his hand, eyes locked on Soap’s ruined expression. “Show me,” he said, voice dropping. “Show me how much you love it.”

Soap’s eyes flew open, wide and shining. He knew what Ghost meant. And there wasn’t a trace of hesitation left in him.

One hand moved between his legs, but not to stroke. Instead, he ran his fingers up the length of his dick, gathering the leaking mess coating his shaft, then brought it to his lips. He sucked the pre from his fingers with a shudder, whimpering as the taste hit his tongue.

Ghost groaned under his breath. “Christ, Johnny…”

Soap’s cock twitched violently at the praise, thighs trembling harder, but he still didn’t touch himself again. Just looked up at Ghost from where he lay, flushed and glassy-eyed, every inch of him trembling with tension.

"'M gonna jizz on your face, 'nd you're not gonna come." Ghost groaned, head falling back as he began jerking off directly in front of Soap's face.

Soap moaned but didn't complain, brain melting at the close up image of Ghost's cock ready to spill all over him. He opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out like a lewd offering.

Ghost grunted softly, at the sight. He pumped himself harder now, grip firm. “Bet you dream about this,” he rasped. “My come on your tongue. My come dripping down your face while you’re still achin’ for it.”

Soap whimpered, the sound needy, eyes fluttering shut before forcing them open again. He wanted to watch. He needed to watch.

With a low, rough groan - Ghost came.

Thick ropes of come spilled from the tip, painting Soap’s tongue, his lips, his cheek. It was hot and heavy, sticky across his flushed skin, the first strand hitting with a wet splatter that made his eyes roll back in sheer bliss.

Soap moaned through it, the taste and feel of it sending shudders down his spine. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t wipe it away. Just held still, basking in it, his own cock jumping between his legs untouched but throbbing violently.

Ghost stood over him for a long moment, breathing hard, his hand slowly relaxing around his softening length. His gaze dropped to Soap - wrecked, leaking, coated in his come, still trembling on the edge of orgasm and nowhere near allowed to fall over it.

“Good boy,” he said finally, voice hoarse.

Soap nodded weakly, a tear slipping down his cheek - not from shame, not from pain, but pure, agonising pleasure. His lips moved, forming the only words his ruined brain could manage.

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Ghost has a thing for religious symbolism.

He knows it’s fucked up - knows he shouldn’t get hard at the sight of a rosary strung tight around someone’s throat, the idea of being railed over a cold stone altar, or the image of stroking himself in a dusty confessional, whispering filthy confessions behind the mesh like they’re holy words.

But it is what it is.

Late in the afternoon, he lingers in Soap's room, golden slats of sun cutting through the blinds and streaking across the floor like broken halos. Ghost isn’t even sure why he opened the drawer - maybe looking for spare mags, maybe just nosy while Soap packs.

He finds it instead: a small wooden crucifix, worn and darkened at the edges from years of handling. Nothing flashy - no silver or gilding - just a simple cross on a frayed black cord, tucked between a pair of rolled socks and a half-empty blister pack and painkillers.

His fingers still in place, eyes locked on the thing like it might bite him. All at once, his mind is full of images - Johnny on his knees, lips moving as he mumbles prayers, head bowed and contrite. Then it drifts to the not so innocent visions; shirtless, sweaty, whispering apologies with that thick brogue as Ghost stands over him, hand in his hair, mouth whispering forgiveness that sounds an awful lot like blasphemy.

“You’re religious?” Ghost asks finally, still staring into the drawer like he’s trying to look through it.

Behind him, Soap rustles around his half-packed backpack, zipping compartments and shoving in folded clothes. “Hm? Oh, nah, not really. Grew up Catholic, but it’s all a load o’ shite if you ask me.”

Ghost turns his head slightly, just enough to glance back over his shoulder. “Why’ve you got a cross then?”

There’s a pause - only a second or two, but it feels like it stretches for longer. The sun’s nearly down now, casting the place in warm shadow.

“Last thing my da ever gave me,” Soap says at last, tone softer than usual. “Just sentimental.”

Ghost nods once. He doesn’t say anything else. He closes the drawer gently, like he’s sealing something in.

But the image sticks.

Soap, kneeling. Repentant. Wanting to be good - but not quite managing it.
Ghost keeps seeing it. In dreams. In the blur of memory. In the quiet moments where he catches Johnny looking up at him with that maddening mix of defiance and devotion.

The subject comes up again a few days later.

They’re in Mexico - have been for over a week now - embedded in a dusty little town pressed up against the edge of cartel territory. The kind of place that looks sun-bleached and forgotten, where stray dogs nap in the shade of rusted-out trucks and the streets are more dirt than pavement. It’s hot, stifling in a way that sticks to your skin like a second layer, and the air smells of diesel, old incense, and grilled meat from a nearby market stall.

Today’s been slow. The mission isn’t combat-heavy - just recon, information-gathering, mapping routes and watching cartel movements. The two of them break off from the rest of the team to walk a few blocks from their safe-house, following a thin trail of intel that turns out to be a dead end.

But then Ghost notices it.

A small, weathered church tucked between two crumbling buildings. The stucco is peeling, the cross on the steeple rusted and crooked. The wooden doors stand open, and a gust of cool, incense-heavy air drifts out into the heat. Inside, it’s dim - candlelight flickering behind stained glass, the scent of wax and dust and something older hanging in the air.

Ghost stops walking.

Soap slows to a halt beside him, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, sweat glistening at his temples. He squints toward the church, then glances at Ghost.

“You religious?” he asks, incredulous, like the idea is somehow more shocking than anything they've seen this week.

Ghost blinks, snapped out of his trance. “What? No. Why?”

Soap snorts. “Every time you see something Christian or Catholic or whatever, you just stare. Like it's calling to you.”

Ghost shrugs, his voice quieter. “Yeah…”

Soap raises an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

There’s a pause. Ghost shifts on his feet, suddenly aware of how dry his throat feels. The sun is beating down hard, but there's a chill creeping down his spine that has nothing to do with the weather.

“Just, uh… like the symbolism,” he mutters, avoiding Soap’s eyes. “It looks... nice.”

Soap’s not buying it. He tilts his head, giving Ghost that look - the one that says he knows every inch of him, even the ones Ghost tries to hide. “You never just like things because they ‘look nice.’ You’re not that kind of guy. Go on, spit it out. What’s the real reason?”

Ghost hesitates. There’s a flicker of something like shame in his eyes, but it doesn’t quite reach his voice. He clears his throat, fingers flexing slightly where they rest on the strap of his vest.

“Got a bit of a kink for it.”

Soap’s face splits into a slow, shit-eating grin. “You fuckin’ freak.”

Ghost groans under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shut up.”

But the corner of his mouth twitches beneath the mask. He’s not that embarrassed. Not with Johnny.

Soap bumps his shoulder against him playfully. “Nah, I’m serious. That’s hot as fuck.”

Ghost glances at him sidelong, eyes narrowing. “Thought you said it was ‘a load of shite.’”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t let you sin all over me in a pew, mate.”

"Happy birthday, Simon," Soap said, far too mischievously.

Ghost stared at the half-abandoned church in front of him, tucked deep into the woods about a mile out from base. The place looked like it had been forgotten by God and man alike - ivy curling up the stone walls, stained glass cracked in places, the steeple dark against the grey sky. Moss crept up the edges of old stone steps, and the heavy oak doors sat just slightly ajar, like they were waiting.

It had been a month since Mexico. Since the church. Since his confession.

Ghost turned his head slowly back to Soap, disbelief flickering in his eyes. “What.”

Soap grinned like the devil himself. “Go inside.”

“You’re joking.”

“Dead serious.”

Ghost didn’t move. He just stared at the building, the overgrown trail behind them swallowed quickly by trees. The forest was quiet - unnaturally so. No birdsong, no wind. Just the sound of Soap’s breath beside him and the faint creak of the old church settling in its bones.

“You dragged me out here - for this?” Ghost asked.

Soap shrugged, tossing him a wink. “Figured you deserved a proper religious experience. You said it yourself - got a kink for it. Thought I’d be a good boyfriend.”

Ghost blinked once. Then twice.

“You broke into an abandoned chapel in the middle of nowhere…”

“Technically not abandoned,” Soap corrected. “Still has an altar. Still has pews. Still has candleholders. That’s all you really need, aye?”

Ghost stepped forward, the gravel crunching under his boots. “You planned this.”

“I did.”

“You carried out recon. On a church. For this.”

Soap shrugged again, smug and unrepentant. “You can thank me later.”

Ghost paused at the threshold, one gloved hand pressed against the rough wood of the door. It groaned open at his touch, revealing the cool, dim interior. Dust motes hung in the air like ash, caught in narrow shafts of grey light piercing through fractured glass. The altar sat ahead, worn and chipped but still standing. Dozens of burned-out candles lined the sides, some melted into the floorboards. A crucifix hung crooked above the pulpit, casting a long shadow.

He stepped inside. The air shifted around him, still and reverent.

Soap followed, closing the door behind them with a low creak that echoed through the empty chapel. The sound was final - intimate, somehow. The air carried the faint scent of old wood, wax, and something earthy, like wet stone.

Ghost turned to face him. “You realise how fucking deranged this is.”

Soap smiled, slow and wicked. “Oh, absolutely.”

“And you’re okay with this?” Ghost’s voice was quieter now, rougher, like it caught on something deep in his throat.

“I want you to have what you want, Ghost. Even the fucked-up things.” Soap’s voice was steady, serious now. “Especially those.”

The silence stretched.

Ghost stood still in the centre aisle, surrounded by empty pews and faded saints watching from shattered stained glass. The light that filtered through them was bruised - muted reds, deep purples, the colour of old wine and dried blood.

His own breath came slower now, heavier, like something sacred had cracked open in his chest. He looked at the altar again, worn and weathered but still standing, then at Soap - his partner, his lover, his temptation in human form.

Johnny just smiled.

“Oh, I haven’t even shown you the best part yet-” Soap announced, voice bright and reckless with anticipation.

He stepped past the altar, toward something tucked into the far corner behind it. It was large, vaguely man-shaped, shrouded beneath a white cloth that looked suspiciously like it had once been part of a communion table.

With a flourish far too gleeful for the setting, Soap grabbed the sheet and yanked it off.

Underneath stood a newly built crucifix. Simple. Raw. Unpainted pine, its surface still showing rough tool marks and pale splinters, like it had been assembled with haste and purpose. A cross - tall and broad enough for a man to be bound against it.

It wasn’t just a prop.

Thick leather restraints hung from each arm of the cross, bolted in place - two for the wrists, two more at the base for ankles. Heavy-duty buckles. Clearly not decorative.

Ghost stared.

His mouth went dry.

Soap turned to him, eyes glittering with wicked satisfaction.

“Told you I’d be a good boyfriend,” Soap said, and there was something too tender in his voice for how filthy the moment was. “Built it myself. Took me a couple days. You should’ve seen the look the quartermaster gave me when I requisitioned the straps.”

Ghost didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.

Something inside him felt unmoored - like all the static and noise in his head had gone silent at once, leaving only the sight of Johnny standing there, proud and shameless and offering himself up in the most Ghost-specific way imaginable.

Ghost reached up and pulled his mask off. The fabric scraped over his skin, and the cool air of the church kissed the scars on his face. He dropped the skull-patterned balaclava onto the stone floor. It landed soundlessly, forgotten.

He started walking forward.

Each step echoed in the hollow nave - the soft thud of combat boots on aged stone, the shift of his gear brushing against his vest. He moved like a man in a trance, gaze locked on Soap as if pulled by gravity. Johnny just watched, chest rising and falling a little quicker now, a flicker of nerves dancing under the swagger.

Ghost stopped only when Soap’s back hit the cross.

The wood creaked faintly under the contact, the scent of freshly sanded pine mingling with dust and candle wax. Ghost’s shadow loomed over him, taller and darker than the crucifix itself.

Ghost dropped to his knees.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even intentional. It was as if his body decided for him, like kneeling here - before him - was the only thing it could do.

The impact echoed, soft but final, as Ghost settled onto the cold stone floor. It grounded him - the ache in his knees, the faint bite of grit through the fabric of his cargos, the weight of the moment settling over him like a heavy cloak. His eyes were level with Soap’s hips now, breath brushing over the fabric of his trousers. His gloved hands braced against the rough wood on either side of Johnny’s legs, holding him there like he needed the support just to stay upright.

Soap reached down and touched his face gently - just a brush of fingertips over his cheek, a thumb skimming the old scar that cut across his chin. The touch was feather-light and Ghost found himself leaning into it before he could stop himself, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat.

He exhaled shakily and turned his head just enough to nuzzle against the bulge between Soap’s legs.

Soap sucked in a breath, slightly startled, his whole body tensing for half a second at the contact. The sound wasn’t loud, but in the cavernous hush of the church, it might as well have echoed. Ghost could feel it - the way Johnny’s muscles coiled beneath his palms, the slight tremor in his thighs, the pulse thrumming just under the surface.

“Christ…” Soap muttered. His hand drifted into Ghost’s hair, threading gently through it. He didn’t push or guide - just held him there, thumb sweeping slow arcs over his scalp.

Ghost’s breath warmed the fabric as he stayed there, cheek resting lightly against the swell beneath the rough weave of Soap’s pants. He wasn’t rushing.

“God, Simon…” he whispered, softer this time. “You’ve no idea what that does to me.”

Ghost hummed in response, the sound low and reverberating through the fabric, and finally tilted his head back enough to meet Soap’s eyes. The look on his face was molten - not pleading, not meek, but wide open. It was an offering without words, an invitation to be used, to be _trusted_.

“Can I?” Ghost asked, dangerous with intent.

“’Course you can,” Soap breathed, voice getting rougher the longer he looked at Ghost on his knees.

Ghost’s hands moved with steady purpose. He unbuckled Soap’s belt, the soft clink of metal echoing in the silence of the church. Soap’s trousers slid down around his ankles, pooling at his boots. A second later, his boxers followed - dragged down over strong thighs and left to hang loose around his knees.

Ghost always paused here. He always did. There was something about the sight of him - half-hard and heavy - that held Ghost captive. It wasn’t just the physicality, though that alone made his mouth water. It was Johnny: alive and vulnerable and powerful all at once.

He reached up, fingers wrapping around the base of him, squeezing gently - testing the weight, the heat, the pulse thrumming beneath the skin. Ghost stared up at him as he did it, unblinking, drinking in every twitch, every shift in Soap’s expression.

Johnny’s breath stuttered. His hands hovered uncertainly before one finally found its way into Ghost’s hair, fingertips threading gently through the short, coarse strands.

Ghost stroked him slowly, coaxing him to full hardness with patient motions. Soap’s hips jerked once, a quiet, involuntary sound leaving his throat. It was raw, the kind of sound that made Ghost’s pulse hammer in his chest.

With one final upward drag of his hand, Ghost leaned forward.

He parted his lips and took Soap into his mouth.

The first inch slid over his tongue with a weight and heat that made his eyelids flutter. He sank down further, breath hot and steady through his nose, the taste of salt and skin blooming across his tongue. Ghost’s hand tightened at the base, guiding and steadying, while his mouth worked slow and deep.

“Fuck…” Soap hissed. His fingers tightened slightly in Ghost’s hair, still not pushing, just anchoring himself as pleasure rippled through him.

Ghost hummed again, and Soap felt it - the vibration shooting straight through him, pulling another ragged breath from his chest. Ghost’s eyes were locked on his the entire time, dark and steady, pupils blown wide as if this was where he was meant to be.

Johnny looked down at him and nearly came on the spot. Ghost on his knees, worshipping him like something sacred. A man who commanded fear and silence from everyone else, now trembling just a little as he took him deeper, cheeks hollowing as he drew him in.

“Christ, Simon…” Soap groaned, voice wrecked. “Just like that. You’re so fuckin’ good for me.”

Ghost moaned hotly, the vibration running straight through Johnny’s spine. He pushed deeper, too eager, and choked slightly around Soap’s cock. The sight - the sound - made Johnny’s knees buckle.

“Fuck-” Soap hissed, the word breaking out of him. His hand shot into Ghost’s hair. His hips stuttered forward, instinct betraying him, and he had to force himself back, had to pull Ghost off before it was over too soon.

“Jesus fuck,” he gasped, chest heaving, every muscle in his body drawn tight. He stared down at Ghost, lips parted, eyes dark with hunger. “Need to fuck you right fuckin’ now. Get up.”

Ghost's body reacted before his mind could catch up - hands sliding from Soap’s thighs as he shifted back onto his heels, chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still locked on Johnny’s, and the look there was feral and soft all at once.

Soap reached down and helped him up, not out of necessity but because he wanted to touch him, needed to feel him. Ghost rose slowly, unsteady from the intensity of it all, and Soap caught him by the collar, dragging him into a kiss that was hot and messy and desperate. Their teeth clacked. Their breaths tangled. It wasn’t graceful - it was need, urgent.

“Stand there-yeah, there you go-” he muttered, as he guided Ghost backward toward the crucifix.

Ghost let himself be moved, obedient and heavy-lidded, until his back hit the wood. He raised his arms automatically, letting Soap take them by the wrists. The leather was cool against his skin, and he didn’t flinch when the first buckle clicked shut.

One side.
Then the other.

“There we fuckin’ go…” Soap murmured, half to himself.

He stepped back for just a second to look at him - Ghost, arms bound wide to the cross, chest rising and falling like he was already halfway undone. His shirt was half-untucked, riding up to expose the firm cut of his stomach, and his belt hung loose at his hips. His mouth was kiss-swollen. His eyes were heavy. He looked completely, devastatingly, willing.

Soap ran a hand down Ghost’s side, from ribs to hip, then lower - fingers dragging over the waistband of his trousers.

“I’m not fastening your ankles,” Soap said sultrily. “Because I’m gonna need to haul them over my shoulders with the way I’m going to fuck you.”

Ghost made a sound at that - somewhere between a breathless laugh and a hot, aching moan.

Soap shoved down Ghost's trousers and underwear in one go; taking the time to pull them off and over his boots. His cock was already rock hard, as to be expected, and Soap pulled out a travel packet of lube from his pocket, ripping it open with his teeth.

“Put your leg up over my waist,” Soap said, patience thinning.

Ghost didn’t hesitate. He hiked his leg over Soap’s hip, body spread open and eager, obscene - and proud of it.

Soap slicked his fingers fast, lube cold as it hit his skin, but it didn’t matter. He was all heat inside, flush and pulsing, ready in a way that felt filthy. Like he’d been waiting for this moment since the first time he laid eyes on a cross.

The first finger slid into Ghost's ass easily.

Ghost hissed through his teeth, head tipping back against the wood, a groan punching out of him. Not from pain. From the wrongness of it. From the rightness of that wrongness.

“Fuck, look at you,” Soap muttered hoarsely. “Christ, spread wide like a good little penitent.”

Ghost’s eyes snapped open - wild and dark, mouth parted. “Didn't know you were into this-”

Soap grinned, dirty and unrepentant. “Gonna fuck the Lord right outta you.”

The second finger pushed in harder, rougher - no warning now. Ghost groaned, deep and hungry, grinding down against the stretch, the sting, the violence of it. He wasn’t fragile. He wanted it mean.

“Think I’ll make you come with your back on that altar,” Soap growled. “Make you beg with your hands still bound, cock leaking, face red like a fucking martyr.”

Ghost shuddered.

“I’ll ruin you in here,” Soap promised, twisting his fingers cruelly, prodding at his prostate. “Where’s your god now?”

“Right here with his fingers in my ass,” Ghost panted, breaking into a grin.

Soap pulled his fingers out with a wet drag. “That he is, now get your other leg around my waist.” He commanded, hauling Ghost's leg up. He held him against the crucifix, Ghost's cock drooling, pressed between their stomachs.

Soap lined himself up with Ghost's ass, resting his forehead in the crook of Ghost's neck and panting as he began to push in.

Ghost bit down on a groan, legs flexing, the stretch near brutal with how hard Soap pressed into him - no pause, just heat and pressure.

The crucifix creaked beneath them. The leather straps strained.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost choked out, head thrown back, sweat dripping down his neck. “This is so wrong-”

“That’s the whole point,” Soap snapped, head tipping back to look him in the eye as he fucked him. “You said you wanted blasphemy, yeah? So take it like a good little sinner.”

He drove in harder, fucking him against the cross like he was trying to exorcise something. Ghost’s mouth was open but no sound came out - just harsh gasps, the broken rhythm of a man wrecked by his own desire.

“You look like a fuckin’ heretic,” Soap moaned, shoving his cock in deep, grinding against his prostate. “Eyes rolled back. Drooling for cock like a whore.”

Ghost bared his teeth in a ragged moan. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Soap obeyed. Brutally.

He wrapped his hands around Ghost’s hips and used him - hips snapping forward, every thrust a sin written in flesh. The sounds that filled the chapel were lewd - skin slapping, wet and rough, the choked moans coming from Ghost's throat, the grind of leather restraints as he twisted under it all.

Soap’s head dipped, teeth scraping along Ghost’s neck, not soft - a threat.

“Gonna fill you up right here,” he panted against his skin. “In front of every broken saint in this shithole. Who's your god hm?”

Ghost only moaned loudly, bucking against the restraints.

“Say it.”

“You, fuck, you're my god-” Ghost choked out.

Soap’s hand shot between them, wrapping around Ghost’s cock and stroking him hard and fast, pace unrelenting, designed to break. Ghost’s whole body locked up, thighs trembling, sweat soaking his shirt.

“Come for me, come on your gods cock-” Soap moaned, before licking a long stripe up Ghost's jugular.

With a cry that echoed off the stone walls, Ghost came hard, back arched, muscles straining, his come striping his chest and Soap’s fist.

Soap didn’t stop. Not even when Ghost was spent and shaking.

He leaned forward and kissed him with sloppy heat, driving in one last time as he came with a groan, cock pulsing deep inside him, hips jerking against the cradle of Ghost’s body.

They collapsed together against the cross, panting heavily, sweating through their shirts.

It took a full minute for Soap to gather the strength to step back and start undoing the restraints. Ghost didn’t speak. He just sagged forward when his arms were freed, still braced against the wood like he was waiting for a second round - or maybe divine punishment.

Neither came.

Just Soap’s mouth on his temple, rough hands tugging his trousers back up, and a hoarse chuckle that sounded far too satisfied.

“Hope you’re feeling holy, love.”

Ghost coughed out a laugh, spent. “Gonna burn in seven different hells for that.”

Soap’s smirk returned, lazy and smug. “Aye, well. I’ll save you a seat.”

Chapter Text

Something had shifted in Will after that evening in Hannibal’s house.

He remembers the knife sliding into him, the gesture unfathomably intimate, inevitable. The pain had been blinding, a spiral of fire in his stomach. But what lingered was not the pain itself - it was the look Hannibal gave him while holding the blade steady, a gaze both mournful and unflinching. It was something close to love, twisted into cruelty.

The memory replays with an unsettling clarity: the way his knees buckled; the warmth of blood spreading beneath him, seeping into the polished wood in slow rivulets. He remembers the smell of iron and rain drifting through open windows, the silence broken only by his own strangled breathing.

Now, at 2 a.m., the memory finds him again - coiling through his chest, his gut, lower still. He shifts beneath the sheets, already half-hard, already hating himself for it.

His room is disorganised; books lie in small, precarious stacks along the floor, some spines cracked from rereading, others left half-open as if abandoned mid-thought. A lamp on the nightstand throws a weak yellow hue over everything, catching on the worn edges of furniture that’s too old, too used to be called comfortable. One of the curtains flutters gently from an open window, letting in a draft that nips at the sweat on his skin.

Will lies tangled in the sheets, curls damp against his forehead, a shadow of stubble darkening his face. His body still bears faint reminders of that night — a pale, jagged scar running low across his abdomen, a raised seam that aches when the weather turns. He’s leaner now, the months since then hollowing him out in ways both visible and not, as if grief and obsession have carved their own territory beneath his skin.

It’s absurd. He knows that. The idea of jerking off to the recollection of being gutted shouldn’t be arousing. No part of it should be. And yet… there’s no denying the heady pulse of desire threaded through the horror. The heat of Hannibal’s body. The precise press of the blade. The strange, harrowing intimacy of it all.

His breath comes heavier, the ceiling above him blurring as he lets the memory pull him deeper. He tugs his grey t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging damply to his skin where sweat has already soaked through the chest. His blue boxers join the heap of discarded clothes at the foot of the bed.

Will's body bears the quiet history of a man who spends more time outside than in — shoulders roped with lean muscle, a chest defined more by wiry strength than bulk, skin pale where the sun hasn’t reached and dusted with freckles where it has. The scar Hannibal left on him cuts a pale, uneven line across his lower abdomen, an old wound that still hums beneath his fingertips when he lets them trace it. Ribs shift visibly with each deepening breath, the rise and fall rhythmic. There’s nothing polished about him - he is raw edges and weathered flesh, a body built by long walks in the woods and sleepless nights bent over case files, a vessel shaped as much by violence as by life.

His hand drifts lower, brushing past the scar as if testing how much of that night still lives inside him. His pulse stutters, then surges when his fingers wrap around his cock, the sensation pulling a soft, unbidden sound from his throat. He lets his eyes fall shut, surrendering to the memory that’s already pulling him under.

More blood rushes south as his mind spirals back to Hannibal - to the way he held Will as the blade slid home, how he drew him close even as he opened him up. A steady hand at the back of Will’s head, guiding him, keeping him near, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, close enough that a kiss might have bridged the space between agony and tenderness.

His cock thickens in his grip, heat pooling in his stomach, and his hand tightens instinctively, dragging a hitched gasp from his chest. He opens his eyes again, watching with detached fascination as a bead of pre gathers at the tip and falls, landing on his skin, an obscene mark just above the pale line of the scar.

Will’s other hand drifts to that scar, fingertips tracing the uneven ridge with fascination, pressing until a dull ache blooms beneath the skin. It isn’t pain, but the ghost of it - a phantom echo of that night.

It isn’t enough.

As sick as it is, he misses the blood. The sting. The way agony had folded itself into tenderness in Hannibal’s hands. He stares at the small hunting knife resting on his nightstand, the cold steel catching the lamplight, and his chest tightens at the sight.

He picks it up and examines it for a moment in his hand. Its red leather handle leads to the sharp silver blade, curved for lethality, designed for precise damage. He brings it just above the scar on his stomach, hesitating for a moment, before swiping it parallel along his skin.

The result is a long and narrow surface wound, around two inches, the almost styrofoam appearance of dermis flashing before it pools with thick red blood.

His hips twitch at the sting, eyes half rolling back into his head at the endorphin rush, a frankly embarrassing whine escaping his mouth. The blood escapes the wound, trickling down over his scar, making its way to his crotch in a slow creep of crimson. He can't stop himself from bucking into his hand, cock throbbing at the sight.

Will forces himself to let go, legs twitching in resistance as he runs two fingers through the blood. It clings to his skin - warm, wet, too vivid to ignore. His breath catches. The smell of copper fills his lungs, grounding him in the grotesque present.

He wonders what Hannibal would say if he walked in now. Would he be amused? Disappointed? Or worse - interested?

Would he lick the blood from Will’s fingers, suck at his cock as he bled? Or would he simply watch, head tilted in that maddeningly clinical way, eyes cataloguing every broken part of him as writhed in pain and pleasure?

His chest rises in shallow gasps, panting. He presses his bloodied palm flat against his stomach, smearing a red print just above the trembling line of his navel. His other hand grips the bedsheet, knuckles white. He feels himself leak as he looks back at the wound on his stomach, so familiar, so hot.

Will's blood slick hand returns to his cock, and he moans at the warm wetness that engulfs his shaft. He squeezes, watching the red on his fingers transfer to his dick, pumping his fist up and down, head falling back onto his pillow.

He shuts his eyes and focusses on the pain, the pulsing sting of the cut, the way it drips. He whines as he bucks up into his hand, the need to come quickly intensifying, breath getting shallower as he remembers the way Hannibal's hand had gripped into his shirt when he'd stabbed him, comforting even then.

He opens his eyes to watch himself come all over his stomach, streaks of white landing on the crimson skin of his torso, gasping as pleasure wracks his system, muscles tensing and shifting as he works himself through it.

As he finally relaxes, he brings his clean hand to his face, running it over his forehead like it might get rid of the post-nut clarity barrelling his way.

Chapter Text

When Soap had first suggested a night out at the nearest city’s most notorious gay club, Gaz had agreed before the sentence had even finished leaving his mouth.

The place was nothing like the usual cramped basements or neon-lit boxes they’d both endured before. This one was open-roofed - an illusion of indoors without the suffocation, the ceiling replaced by a yawning stretch of night sky. The music throbbed deep in the ribcage, bass rolling through the concrete and up into the soles of their boots. Strobing light fractured across the sea of moving bodies, catching on sweat-damp skin and sequinned shirts, and the sheer density of people turned the cool night air into a heavy, shared warmth. Cigarette smoke curled lazily above the crowd, dissolving into the open dark rather than clinging to their clothes.

Gaz tilted his head back and let the wind brush against his face — an odd, fleeting relief amid the heat and chaos. He could feel Soap at his shoulder even without looking, the man’s presence a familiar orbit, steady despite the swirl of strangers pressing in around them.

“Not bad, eh?” Soap leaned close to be heard, lips ghosting against Gaz’s ear without meaning to. His breath smelled faintly of beer and mint.

Gaz snorted. “You undersold it. I was expecting sticky floors and bad remixes.”

Soap laughed and pulled back to sip his drink. He was scantily dressed to say the least - a tight fitted shirt that used cut out sections to create a spiderweb pattern, both on the front and the back, showing off the majority of his chiselled torso, leather trousers doing little to distract, leading down to shiny, thick combat boots with a slight platform.

He looked… indecently smug, and Gaz knew that grin well enough to suspect he was already running some kind of scheme. When the front strands of his mohawk fell loose across his forehead, he only leaned into it, cocking his head like he’d meant to be caught out.

Gaz realised too late that he’d been staring. Soap’s grin widened into something provocative.

“You look hot too, y’know.” His hand found Gaz’s waist, fingers curling just enough to anchor him in place, and he edged closer, close enough that the heat of his breath grazed Gaz’s jaw. It wasn’t subtle - nothing about Soap ever was - and Gaz knew exactly what he wanted without a word being said.

Gaz wasn’t nearly as bare as Soap, but he hadn’t come dressed to fade into the background either. A close-fitted black mesh shirt clung to his shoulders and arms, hinting at muscle without giving too much away, the faint sheen of sweat making the fabric half-transparent in the lights. Over it he wore a cropped, military-cut jacket in deep olive. Slim dark jeans sat low on his hips, their seams hugging tight down his legs and tucked neatly into worn leather boots, scuffed from use but polished for tonight. A thin silver chain at his throat caught the strobe lights now and then, drawing the eye to the long stretch of his neck.

Soap’s eyes flicked over the whole ensemble like he was cataloguing every inch, and his grin turned downright filthy.

“Didn’t think you had that in your wardrobe,” he teased. “Gonna make it hard to behave.”

Gaz huffed a laugh. “When do you ever behave?”

Soap’s fingers at his waist tightened fractionally, and the look he gave him then - bold, unguarded - left no question of what he had in mind.

Gaz lifted his own hand and pressed it to Soap’s waist. He didn’t stop at the fabric, either - his fingers slipped beneath the cut-outs of the shirt, sliding against the heat of his bare skin. He squeezed, slow and firm, and for the first time that night Soap’s expression faltered. The easy bravado cracked into something sultrier. His breath caught, lips parting, and the confidence he wore like armour flickered into sudden need.

Soap closed the distance, kissing him hard enough that Gaz felt the edges of teeth against his mouth. It wasn’t polished - Soap never was - but it carried all the restless energy he’d been radiating since they’d walked in.

The noise of the club folded around them: bass vibrating through their ribs, lights slicing across their faces in quick intervals, the press of bodies only half-aware of the pair tangled together. Soap’s hand slid higher at Gaz’s waist, anchoring him close, while Gaz tilted his head, deepening the kiss, taking just enough control to remind Soap who was holding whom.

Soap caught his tongue and sucked, bold as ever, pressing his body flush against his until the drag of his hips was unmistakable. Gaz’s answer was immediate - a palm sliding lower, cupping and squeezing the curve of his ass hard enough to make Soap break with a needy, guttural sound against his mouth.

The noise only spurred Gaz on. He shoved his tongue deeper, messy and consuming, while their hips found a rhythm that matched the relentless bass.

Soap’s hair stuck damp to his forehead as he leaned into it, breath ragged, fingers now bunching the back of Gaz’s jacket. His moan vibrated against Gaz’s teeth, desperate enough that a few heads in the crowd turned before quickly looking away - this wasn’t the sort of energy you interrupted.

Gaz tightened his grip, fingers digging in to the leather of his trousers, dragging Soap against him like he meant to leave him bruised come morning. The pressure built between them, every roll of their hips feeding the hunger spiralling higher.

When they finally broke for air, Soap’s lips were swollen, glossed with spit, his grin wrecked but triumphant. “Fuckin’ hell, Gaz,” he rasped, voice ruined, “you tryna kill me?”

Gaz smirked, thumb brushing the jut of Soap’s hipbone where his shirt gaped. “You started it.”

“Y’know…This is a pretty well known cruising spot. No one would bat an eye if we just… enjoyed ourselves in a dark corner.”

Soap didn’t usually ask - he dared, he teased, he pushed - but there was something different in the way he said it now, the suggestion thick with invitation rather than assumption.

Gaz’s breath hitched, betraying him for a moment before he masked it with a scoff. “You’re insatiable.”

“Not wrong,” Soap murmured against his neck, the faint scrape of teeth following his words.

Gaz let his gaze wander over the crowd - clusters of bodies lost in their own private worlds, some pressed too close to call it dancing, others already half-hidden in the shadows near the walls. Soap wasn’t lying; this place had its own unspoken rules. No one here would stop them. Hell, no one would even notice.

His hand slid higher, tracing the line of Soap’s back beneath the cut-outs of his shirt, fingertips dragging just enough to make Soap shiver. “Lead on, then,” he said finally.

Soap pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, the grin he wore now far more dangerous - not just mischief, but intent. He threaded their fingers together and tugged, weaving them through the crush of bodies with surprising ease. The deeper they pushed into the club, the darker the light became, strobes fading into washes of red and violet. Here, the bass wasn’t a pulse so much as a heartbeat, steady and close, vibrating through the walls and into their bones.

They downed the last of their drinks in unison and let the cups fall where they would, the clatter lost beneath the music. Before Gaz could orient himself, Soap had turned on him, pressing him back into the cool, painted brick. The sudden contrast - the cold at his spine, the heat radiating off Soap’s body - made his breath stutter.

Their mouths met again, fiercer this time, any pretence of restraint gone. Soap licked into him with abandon, the wet slide of his tongue matching the heavy rhythm around them. Gaz’s lips parted willingly, and the kiss deepened, hot and invasive, half-swallowing the groan that broke from Soap’s chest.

Soap pressed closer, until Gaz could feel every hard line of him through the thin layers of fabric: the drag of leather against denim, the sharp catch of his belt buckle, the steady thrum of his heartbeat thrashing against Gaz’s ribs as if trying to sync. One of Soap’s hands found the back of Gaz’s neck, thumb stroking slow circles there, while the other roamed further, tracing the waistband of his jeans before gripping his hip and hauling him closer still.

Gaz’s own hands weren’t idle - one tangled in the fabric of Soap’s shirt, tugging him closer with quiet insistence, the other trailing down to cup the back of his thigh. He squeezed, drawing a muffled gasp from Soap, who responded by biting lightly at his bottom lip before chasing the sting with his tongue.

The kiss broke for a moment - just long enough for Soap to rest his forehead against Gaz’s, breath ragged, lips hovering a breath away. “This what you had in mind?” he whispered, voice frayed and wrecked.

Gaz swallowed hard, his answer a hot mumble against Soap’s mouth. “Not even close.”

His hand slid boldly into the open fly of Soap’s trousers, fingers curling around his cock, hot and heavy in his palm. The sound Soap made was half gasp, half moan, muffled against the crook of Gaz’s neck where he buried his face.

“Ah- fuck, more- ” he breathed, voice unraveling as he rocked forward into Gaz’s grip.

Gaz obliged, tightening his hold with a measured squeeze that dragged another needy sound from Soap’s throat. He was already leaking, slicking Gaz’s fingers, and Gaz took a moment to smear it down the shaft, stroking him with dizzying pressure. The shudder that wracked Soap’s frame was answer enough.

"God, you're so hot,” Gaz muttered, the words dragged out of him as if against his will, hips stuttering forward as he reached for his own zipper with his free hand. He undid it swiftly, sighing at the easing of pressure as he managed to get his own dick out of his boxers. He grasped the two of them in one big hand, and jerked.

Soap choked on a whine, eyes practically rolling back in his head.

“Jesus- fuck,” he gasped, forehead thudding gently against Gaz’s as he sagged into the wall for support. “You’re gonna make me come.”

Gaz just grinned, breath catching as he stroked them both together. The friction was perfect, messy and hot, each stroke stoking the fire of desire quickly pooling in his gut.

“Good,” he breathed, leaning in to catch Soap’s mouth again, lips brushing as he added, “That’s the point.”

Soap moaned into the kiss, greedy and open, hips canting into every thrust of Gaz’s hand. Their cocks slid together, wet and aching, the press of it heady enough to strip the air from Gaz’s lungs.

The rest of the world blurred - music pounding, shadows curling close around them, and the rhythmic grind of bodies just far enough away to keep this moment theirs alone.

Soap broke the kiss, panting harshly, face flushed and eyes heavy lidded. “Not gonna last,” he said, half moaning the words.

Gaz tightened his grip, pace brutal now. “Don’t need you to.”

Soap’s whole body tensed, the moan he let out half-shouted, swallowed at the last second by Gaz’s mouth as he came hard between them, hips jerking uncontrollably. It smeared warm streaks across both their stomachs, their hands, and still Gaz didn’t stop - not until he was there too, breath torn out of him as he spilled over Soap’s cock, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

For a long, breathless second, neither of them moved.

Soap huffed a laugh, weak and elated, tilting his head just enough to murmur, “Well. That escalated.”

Gaz let out a rough chuckle against his neck, still catching his breath. “You think?”

Soap pulled back a little, just enough to glance down. “We’re a fucking mess.”

Gaz looked too - shirts rumpled, trousers undone, the smear of come already cooling against the fabric. “No one’s looking.”

Soap raised an eyebrow, his grin lazy. “Don’t care even if they were.”

They finally disentangled just enough to get their flies closed and half-situated again, wiping their hands with crumpled tissues and the hem of Soap’s shirt, which earned a groan of protest.

“That was expensive,” Soap muttered, glaring at the damp fabric.

Gaz smirked. “Worth it.”