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Ghost was half-obscured in shadow, reclining back in his chair, a tumbler of bourbon dangling from his fingertips. The way his forefinger tapped the glass, steady and confident, gave away that his attention was elsewhere. To an observer, it would seem that Ghost was distracted, bored even, with how he lounged so carelessly and made no acknowledgement of the figures on the bed.
But there was no question about it, as the cries of the two men writhing together grew and crested, that every ounce of Ghost’s attention was on them.
Scarred hands scrabbled against the bed sheets, nearly pulling the top sheet clean off the mattress, as the man gripping Soap’s hips slowed and stilled. The man’s groan came from low in his chest, one of bone-deep satisfaction, while Soap’s answering moan belied his frustration.
“F-fuck– wait–”
Soothing hands rubbed over Soap’s trembling flank, the way one would quiet a spooked horse. His hips pulled back further, leaving coldness between them, and something wet that trailed down Soap’s inner thigh. The sensation made Soap’s stomach drop, desperation breaking through his foggy mind. His partner was leaving him. Cold, empty, and worst of all–
“Please,” Soap slurred through the drool that had gathered at the corners of his lips. Pressed into the mattress, Soap hadn’t noticed how damp his face had become with sweat and tears and unidentifiable bodily fluids.
He hadn’t started in this position. He’d started on his knees, then moved to his back, and the last two hadn’t moved him off his stomach. Soap had lost the strength to hold himself up on his elbows at least halfway through the last one. Now, desperate as he was, he made an aborted attempt to turn his red, tear-stained face in the direction of his only hope for relief.
“I need it, f-fuck, Gaz, please– I’m so fucking close–”
“Did I say you could beg, Johnny?”
The clunk of the heavy tumbler on wood sent a shudder through Soap’s body. He was suddenly alone on the bed, no hands to soothe his heated skin, no blissful friction or sensual rocking or anything that could bring about reprieve.
“That’s three, Ghost, damn you, I need–”
“Johnny.”
Soap buried his hands in what little hair he had, an aborted whimper escaping his lips. Suddenly he was missing Gaz behind him, if only because he acted as a barrier between Soap and Ghost’s incessant, piercing gaze. Never had Soap felt so naked as he did now, nevermind the fact that Ghost had seen and done worse to him.
“Answer my question.”
“No,” Soap mumbled into his forearm, and then, louder, because he knew that wouldn’t be good enough for Ghost:
“No, sir. You didn’t– you didn’t say I could beg.”
“I know what you need.” Ghost’s voice pinned Soap to the bed as effectively as Gaz’s weight had. He wouldn’t dream of moving, even though Soap could still feel Gaz’s eyes on him, Ghost’s grim gaze.
“Isn’t that the truth, Johnny? That I know what you need?”
“Yes,” Soap gasped, obedience as quick as thought. “Yes, you do, fuck. Ghost–”
The ‘please’ was right on his lips, and Soap forced himself to choke on it, wanting whatever came next more than he wanted to voice his pleas.
Some signal must have been given to Gaz, since Soap could hear his heavy footfalls cross the room to the door. The knob turned, the door shut, and then there was nothing.
Soap had to sink his teeth into his skin to keep from embarrassing himself. He had wanted this, sure, agreed to it enthusiastically; but now, lying naked on this bed, spend from three men already leaking out of him, all his needs had been filed down to something much more primal.
Touch. Heaven help him, how Soap wanted to be touched. His skin buzzed with the need for it, every muscle tensed, body aching. It wouldn’t be good enough, no, it wasn’t what he really needed; but it was something, and that was better than the nothing he had, the awful limbo he was thrown into every time his partner left him alone on the bed with nothing but the reminder of his touch.
It was a good thing Soap was a masochist, since Ghost was something of a sadist himself, and Soap knew this was far from over.
The voice identified the man before Soap saw him. Normally, Soap could tell most anyone apart by the sound of their boots, the cadence of their walk, the heaviness of their steps.
Right now, all of Soap’s nerves were flayed right open, raw and tingling with an energy that filled Soap’s head with static. Soap doubted he could have picked out Price among a herd of elephants.
“Ah, what a lucky man I am.”
The bed dipped with the man’s weight. He hovered over Soap, a lighter weight than Gaz, but no less intimidating.
“How tense you are, my friend. Let me look at you.”
Hands moved Soap onto his back with a reverence he knew he didn’t deserve. His vision was blurry, and when his arms were encouraged to uncover his face, it took several seconds for the man above him to come into focus.
Alejandro encompassed Soap’s field of view, blocking out even Ghost, though Soap had never stopped feeling his presence. Gentle fingers brushed stray curls, fallen from his wilted mohawk, out of Soap’s eyes. He turned his cheek into the touch, barely concealing the whimper that threatened to slip out.
The others had known what they wanted. Rodolfo had put Soap on his knees, and had been too impatient to wait; he had taken Soap with very little prep, though Soap had enjoyed the burn, and it had prepared him for Roach’s rough handling. Gaz had taken his time, eager to savor Soap’s body, and Soap had been all too willing to let him.
Soap hadn’t considered just how that handling would make him feel, how he would be touched and teased and fucked to new heights of pleasure, only to be left dangling time and time again. It was the worst kind of withdrawal, a self-inflicted torture.
Alejandro, though he cared for Soap like a friend and stroked his face like a lover, was no different.
“No llores, cariño,” Alejandro crooned in Soap’s ear, dragging kisses along his stubbled jaw. “So beautiful. I will take care of you, that I promise.”
Soap wasn’t sure when, exactly, Alejandro had time to take off his shirt. The others hadn’t bothered to get undressed. The back of Soap’s thighs were still irritated from the zipper of Roach’s pants, rubbing with every forceful thrust that sent Soap halfway up the bed. Soap’s fingers wrapped around Alejandro’s arm, wandered up his bare chest, and finally rested on his back. He wasn’t aware that he was pulling Alejandro closer to him until soft brown eyes crinkled with a smile.
“Not one to wait. I understand. The others left you in such a state, hm?”
Teeth captured the tip of Soap’s ear, Alejandro’s breath hot on the side of his face.
“Next time I will have you first.”
Alejandro’s fingers around his cock were a brand. Soap’s body seized, his breath coming out in harsh pants as every muscle in his body tightened. Ghost was watching, he couldn’t come; he just had to hold off a little longer, and Ghost would be there, Ghost would touch him, Ghost would give him everything he needed–
The hand was gone. Fingers trailed lower, rubbing, touching, stroking Soap’s thighs. Somehow, during all of this, Soap’s legs had come up, squeezing Alejandro’s body like a vice, and his gentle touch encouraged them to fall open again.
“Good,” Alejandro praised, and Soap couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped his lips. A flash of delight lit up Alejandro’s face. Soap felt the flush heat up his cheeks, turning them even redder than they already were.
“Such a good boy you are, Soap. I would call you by your name, but, well…”
Alejandro’s grin was wicked.
“I know that’s reserved for him.”
Him. Ghost, who hadn’t moved a muscle since this had all started, who had watched Soap fall apart with the same tactical focus he employed when observing a target. Was Ghost pleased with him? Did he like what he saw? Was he falling apart like Soap was, burning up from the inside out?
Two fingers had wandered from Soap’s thigh to his hole, the sticky mess that it was. They met no resistance as they pushed inside. Soap’s cry was muffled into Alejandro’s neck. The friction wasn’t much, just enough to tease, and Soap had spent too much time on the knife’s edge.
“Alejandro– f-fuck– not enough, not enough, please.”
Soap knew what he sounded like. Whiny, even to his own ears. But Alejandro was soft on him, and surely he would recognize Soap’s need–
“You are a good boy, Soap. I know you can take a little more.”
Bastard. Soap would’ve told him so, except Alejandro had added a third finger, and Soap’s eyes rolled so far back into his skull that he was seeing colors he didn’t know existed. He floated there for awhile, under Alejandro’s mercy, getting neither reprieve nor enough hot friction to set him off.
Soap missed the fingers the moment they were gone. The arm that had cradled his shoulders, supporting Soap as the other defiled him, disappeared along with Alejandro’s warm weight. Soap heard the hissing of a zipper, then the rustling of fabric, and the thunk of boots hitting the floor.
Finally, Alejandro had him.
Soap wasn’t sure what Alejandro was saying in his ear, but it made his entire body shudder with the heat behind those words. Alejandro’s cock nudged up against his hole, much more welcome than his fingers, and Soap nearly sobbed when he felt it breach him.
Rodolfo had used Soap like a toy, fucking him impatiently and with little care. Roach had been quick, and brutal, every touch as precise as the man himself. Gaz had more sympathy, touching Soap like he wanted him to get just as much out of it, though that was somehow worse; since in the end, Soap was left wanting, and Gaz had abandoned him like that.
Alejandro fucked like a soldier and held Soap like he was something to be admired. Deep, satisfying thrusts filled Soap up to his throat, choking him, cutting off the pleading words that wanted to escape. There was a hand on Soap’s face, wiping away tears as they fell, and another supporting his head. It lifted Soap, until he could loop his arms around Alejandro’s back, and drag his face against Alejandro’s neck.
Silent sobs wracked Soap’s chest, the sensation of toomuchnotenoughmoremoreplease taking over his body. He wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. Release, maybe; maybe just to be held, to be wanted like this, to be used and surrounded and loved completely.
Alejandro was good, he was perfect; he was everything Soap could have asked for in a lover.
He wasn’t Ghost.
At the end of it all, when everything else had fallen away and the heart of him was laid bare, Soap knew he only needed one thing.
“--mm, Simon,” Soap moaned pathetically, feeling hot tears squeezing past his eyelashes. “Simon, Simon, please–”
Dampness made a mess of Alejandro’s neck. He didn’t slow his pace, quickening it if anything. Gentle shushing quieted Soap’s cries.
“Shh, shh. Such a good boy, Soap, good boy, cariño. Almost there.”
Soap knew how to tell when a man was close, even dazed as he was, after three had already taken him. Alejandro was panting, losing control on the down thrust, and Soap used what little energy he had to meet him there.
Soap felt Alejandro’s groan down to his core. New warmth filled him, and it should’ve disgusted him, but there was little left in Soap that had room for shame. Alejandro was petting his sides, his chest, his ass; anything he could reach. When Soap pulled back, eyes shining with unmet need, Alejandro kissed his tears away.
“Beautiful boy, Soap. So good for me. You were perfect.”
“Ple-ase,” Soap hiccupped, desperately grasping Alejandro’s arms, even as the man started to pull away. “No, no, please, need it, please–”
Soap wasn’t sure who, or what, he was begging for. For Alejandro to touch him, for Alejandro to leave, for Ghost to take him– he needed, that was all he knew, needed it more than he craved water in the desert, more than an infusion when he was bleeding out.
The words came back to him, in a brief moment of clarity.
Isn’t that the truth, Johnny? That I know what you need?
“Simon.” Soap let out a broken gasp, hands clutching at nothing, at air, because Alejandro was gone and there was nothing but the cold and the empty where his lover should be–
Alejandro must’ve really been gone, because when Ghost finally met Soap on the bed, his mask was nowhere to be seen.
“Simon,” Soap choked out, reaching for his face, and Simon’s eyes fluttered shut when he felt the first touch on his cheek.
“You did damn good, Johnny. Never seen anything like it, the way you looked.”
“Please,” Johnny whispered, his throat raw from moaning and begging and sobbing. “Please, Simon, I need–”
“Yeah, Johnny. Yeah. I know.”
Simon’s body covered his, from their tangled legs to the press of Simon’s forehead against Johnny’s. Johnny arched up to him, seeking every bit of friction possible, but Simon held him firm; up until the moment Simon’s fingers dipped into Johnny’s body.
Johnny knew, just from the way Simon fucked him, that his relief was barreling towards him like a helicopter spinning out of control. He squirmed under Simon, all the more distraught knowing that he was so close, and still so needy.
“Simon, Simon–”
Johnny’s fingernails dug into the meat of Simon’s shoulders, his entire body clenching and unclenching with the rhythmic press of Simon’s fingers. They plunged deep within him, and Johnny went white-hot, eyes open but unseeing.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
All Johnny could hear was Simon in his ear, that low voice, always so muffled by his mask, now close and crystal clear. Only for him.
“That’s a good boy, Johnny. So damn good for me. Gonna come for me too, yeah?”
As if Johnny had any other choice.
On any given mission, there was always a moment when the adrenaline was pumping, all he could hear was screaming, Johnny had already had several near misses, and he was so honed in on his kill or be killed instinct that he couldn’t have told you which direction was up.
It was always that moment when Johnny’s ear piece would receive a burst of static, or Simon would appear at his six, a reminder that he was there to catch Johnny every time he fell.
That was what it felt like to come apart in Simon’s arms.
The noise that left Johnny’s throat was nothing short of animalistic. He couldn’t feel anything, not the wetness on his stomach, not the aching in his back; nothing except Simon’s hands holding him securely. Johnny was shaking apart right down to his very atoms, mindless with heat and pleasure and overstimulation. It dragged out into a lifetime, an eternity of bliss in Simon’s arms.
When Johnny’s body dropped, exhaustion and soreness taking over, Simon rolled them over until Johnny could lay comfortably against his chest. Johnny’s face was mashed into his pec, and Johnny was pretty sure he was drooling, but Simon just continued to hold him like he was the only concern Simon had.
It took some time for Johnny to feel like a person again. When he did, he finally turned his face, burying it into Simon’s neck with soft kisses. Simon sighed, shifting, and Johnny gave a lazy grin. It was subtle, but only he knew Simon’s tells. Johnny kissed him in the same spot, on purpose, and listened to Simon huff as he tried not to give away how ticklish he was there.
After several long moments of laying there, enjoying each other, Johnny mumbled something out against Simon’s skin. Simon quirked an eyebrow and craned his neck to look down. Johnny wasn’t making any sense.
“What’s that?”
“You didn’t get off.”
The deep, throaty chuckle Simon let out made Johnny shiver and cling a little tighter to his lover.
“You think I didn’t get off during that little show? Outta your mind, Johnny. You couldn’t have pleased me more.”
Johnny flushed, mouth open, not because he thought Simon was lying, but because he knew Simon was telling the truth.