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“So, what’s your issue?” Ghost asks, not even looking at Soap. He can hear the other man turn his head, like he’s offended by the question, or like he’s about to come over and punch Ghost in the jaw.
He doubts that second one, Soap knows he’d lose that battle, quick as a blink.
Soap doesn’t say anything for awhile. They’re alone right now, in a room that isn’t too important, having what feels like downtime from everything that’s happening. Alone with Soap, what a hell it is. Still, he waits for some sort of answer, quietly doing maintenance to his weapons. The only sound in the room is their breathing, the sound of Ghost’s gear rustling as he moves, and the drift of a cloth along a rifle, the click of pieces coming apart, delicate inspection that Ghost has done a million times over in his life.
Ghost is not going to answer the question for him, and he sure as hell isn’t going to make excuses or speak for him. He’s a grown man, he can speak for himself, say whatever it is he wants to say, if he feels he should or it feels right. Ghost knows Soap isn’t exactly an open book when it comes to emotions, but it’s easy to tell when he’s agitated, fist clenched tight, eyes focused on the wall, arms crossed over his chest - Ghost knows Soap, maybe he knows him better than he knows himself.
“..Why’ve I never seen your face?”
Oh for fucks sake.
This singular topic seems to come up a lot, and it seems to be something that genuinely causes Soap some sense of unhappiness. Ghost doesn’t really get it, honestly. He doesn’t understand why Soap wants to see his face so bad, it’s just a face, there’s nothing special about it. The aspect of anonymity is the entire reason behind the mask, taking it off would completely ruin the purpose, no?
Ghost only takes off the mask when he’s alone, or if he’s in a room of people he knows he can trust. Captain Price is a good example of this, he trusts that man with his life, if Price told him to take off the mask - as long as they were alone - Ghost would, only a bit of hesitation. Price doesn’t ask him to take it off anywhere else, he knows it’s important to Ghost, knows the reasoning and history behind it, and Price respects that. As long as Ghost does his job and does it well, Price doesn’t give a shit.
And to be completely honest, he’s never really had a reason to take it off. They don’t need him to take it off to do what he needs to do, doesn’t need the mask to be removed for him to perform better — it’s practically a part of who Ghost is to the team, a symbol of who he is, at least. A boogeyman, maybe, a ghost story that nobody would ever quite believe, because those who tell it only hear it from rumor, never from a direct source, because everyone whose ever crossed Ghost and ended up on his bad side has met the barrel end of his gun.
”You have.” He replies, still taking apart his gun, just his pistol right now, cleaning and fixing it, making sure it’s within its best condition. It's been some time since he's done this, just taken it apart piece by piece and examined it. He's been busy.
Soap doesn’t like that answer. Though, there’s really no answer that seems to please him when this topic is brought up.
The other man sighs, shifts in his seat like he’s uncomfortable, like the chair is too small for his frame. Ghost knows it isn’t. Soap’s hardly a big fella, at least compared to Ghost. It’s funny, he sort of towers over him.
They both like that aspect of the relationship. Or.. ‘relationship’. Ghost doesn’t know what to call whatever this is, but he knows he cares for Soap, and that’s all that matters, it doesn’t need a fancy label slapped over it.
“Not alone.” Soap replies, gritty and unhappy. It takes a second for him to kick back up after a silence that Soap very obviously despises, “It was.. dark. Couldn’t see you properly.”
It sounds like excuses, a plea almost, just so Soap can get what he wants. Ever so spoiled, he is, Ghost thinks as he keeps the silence running, overlooking his weapon again, filling the magazine with bullets while he works on the chamber. It was hardly dark when Soap saw his face, everyone else saw it perfectly fine. ”Do you have seeing problems?”
It’s a funny joke. He expects to hear Soap at least chuckle, he usually does, even with the bad jokes he tells. But he doesn’t hear anything, just dead silence, like he’s not even breathing. That makes Ghost look up, and he catches Soap’s eye from across the room, hard, a firm glare that would make anyone who didn’t know him crumble under the weight of his apparent displeasure.
But this is Soap, and if Ghost knows anything about Soap, it’s that he’s more a man of action than of words, but he’s not above a bit of pettiness, nor curiosity.
Ghost doesn’t particularly like when Soap is upset, and he definitely doesn’t like being the reason for that unhappiness, but this singular topic is tricky. It’s tricky because Soap doesn’t need to know what he looks like, doesn’t need that information at all, it isn’t helpful or important - it’s just curiosity and the need to know, like it’s his only task in life.
“You’re upset you haven’t seen my face alone.” Ghost asks, but it sounds flat, more of a statement than a question really. Soap doesn’t reply, just sighs and looks away.
Childish. He’s being childish.
Ghost sighs, puts his pieces down on the table in front of him, completely ignoring his pistol now, just taking these long steps towards where Soap sits, back to him, grabbing the back of his chair and spinning it around, forcing Soap to look at him. The chair makes a horrible creaking noise, wood straining under Soap’s weight, with how forceful Ghost moves it.
Soap has this little hint of shock in his expression that he lets slip. Ghost thinks he looks cute, cheeks a bit flushed suddenly, eyes gone a tad wide.
“I’m speaking to you.” It comes out a bit like a growl, unhappy. He hates when Soap acts like this. The bits about the mask are usually just fun, poking because he can, because he’s curious but not really committed to finding out, and so Ghost entertains him, plays back a bit because he likes the banter, likes Soap. But now it’s a problem, as for the last few days it’s all he’s nagged Ghost about, tried to sneak looks at him despite knowing Ghost was practically born in this damn mask. “Answer me.”
Soap stares at him for a moment, holds his gaze, takes it as a challenge rather than a direct form of communication. What a prick, Ghost thinks, smiling a little beneath the mask. “Doesn’t matter.”
Ghost shakes his head.
“It does. You keep bitchin’ at me about it. Either tell me why you care so much or shut the fuck up, Sergeant.” He can tell by Soap’s expression that he’s even more upset now, cause Ghost is scolding him, essentially, and Soap doesn’t really enjoy being scolded, not when it isn’t just for fun.
Ghost just waits, staring at him, eyes cold as he never drops Soap’s gaze, like it’s a challenge. It sort of feels like one, like they’re going for one another’s throats, teeth bared and sharp, aiming to pierce and rip flesh from bone.
The silence drags on for about a minute, Ghost counts the seconds between Soap’s breaths and his blinks, counts six seconds between each breath, fifteen seconds between each blink, sometimes seventeen seconds, it seems to vary between those two sets of numbers, before he gets some sort of response.
“..I want to see your face.” Soap finally admits, eyes shooting to the ground before he speaks, like looking at Ghost and telling the truth at the same time is a little too difficult for him right now. It’s cute, the way he can’t look Ghost in the eyes right now - it makes Ghost want to grab him and pin him to a wall, do unspeakable things to him just because Ghost wants to hear him whine and moan, crumble beneath the weight of his palms.
But, he settles with flicking his eyes around the room, just thinking, piecing together his words, his own thoughts.
Soap wants to see his face, that’s not surprising, it’s a very obvious thing between the two of them: Soap’s desperation to see Ghost’s face and Ghost’s determination to make it a challenge, almost impossible, actually.
The only reason he keeps telling him no is because it’s not important. What Ghost looks like won’t help them, won’t make the job easier, won’t be helpful in any sort of sense, and that’s really all Ghost cares about: pieces of information that make this easier, tech and such that’ll make the punches hurt less.
”Why?” Ghost asks in reply and watches as Soap sighs again, shoulders raising then dropping, eyeing the floor, like the question is one he’s tired of answering.
Silence for another few seconds. Seven seconds between each blink, five between each breath. His heart must be racing, he’s acting like he’s nervous.
“Soap,” Ghost growls, taking his hand and grabbing Soap’s face, forcing the other to look him in the eyes, “I don’t like waiting for answers.”
“..I know, Lt.” Soap mutters, like a child in trouble.
“Answer me, then.” Ghost repeats, a slight tilt of his head, almost condescending.
He watches as Soap pieces his words together, thinking of what he’s going to say, how to say it correctly, beg in a way that’ll make Ghost either give in or make him tease Soap some more. The silence between them is thick, like smoke filling a room with no ventilation, starts to fill their lungs, threatens to choke. Ghost likes this silence, how tense it feels, how Soap is keeping Ghost waiting despite knowing he’s a tad impatient when it comes to these things.
They’re playing with each other, just slightly, and Ghost loves it.
“Can I be honest, sir?” Soap asks, quiet, but it sounds less like a question and like a guarantee, like he’s going to do it no matter what Ghost answers with.
It feels like a trap, like Ghost knows exactly what he's walking in to and has no way out, but he walks straight in anyways.
“Always.” He replies.
Soap smiles at him, playful and knowing, like he's thinking 'got him' in his head. “I think you’re pretty.”
Fuckin’ hell.
That’s all Ghost can think as he stares at Soap, like his brains gone dark, nothing firing to his body to make him function. He’s gone still, just staring at Soap like he’s a piece of art Ghost can’t fathom.
He’s never been called pretty. That’s never happened to him, never in his entire life, and yet here’s Soap - fucking John MacTavish - saying it without a singular care, a knowing grin spread across his face, like he’s got Ghost exactly where he wants him.
"Pretty." Ghost echoes, and Soap nods, smiling wide and dumb, pleased with himself.
"That's what I said, yes." Soap chuckles. Ghost wants to smack him, but he's a bit frozen.
Ghost nods, jerky, but he stays just like that, arms framing Soap’s body where he sits, like an animal trapped in a corner, pinned against a wall with nowhere to run, predator snarling as it stalks towards it, he’s even got a somewhat fitting expression spread across his face.
There’s a little thing about Soap that Ghost highly doubts anyone but him knows - and that’s that Soap is easy. Ghost can give him a certain look, and it’ll snap him into behaving, get him the answers he wants, make Soap shut up about a topic, make him know if something is too much or not enough.
It’s a dynamic between them - and Soap likes to play the line, be a brat and misbehave and tempt fate, and Ghost entertains the behavior because it’s amusing, like a game of cat and mouse, constantly chasing and never quite catching. It’s a bit like teasing, almost.
Silence lingers, draws itself out, and Soap takes it as invitation to reach up and touch at Ghost’s chest, palm pressed over a pec, warmth seeping through the cotton of Ghost’s shirt. He looks down at Soap’s hand, sighs, shakes his head. He can’t believe he’s gonna give him what he wants, he should say no, should make him wait, maybe beg some more.
But this is Soap, for gods sake, and Ghost is a fool for him, unfortunately.
“You want to see my face for your own personal… pleasure?” He asks, sounding disbelieving.
Soap nods, “Affirmative, sir.”
Fuck. Sir. That almost makes Ghost break right there, just the way Soap says it, soft and low, like he's trying to be good despite his misbehaving. Ghost wants to tear his throat out and lick the blood that drips.
"No games?"
Soap shakes his head, "No, sir. Just me and you."
Ghost keeps his eyes with Soap's, flicks between them, searches for anything that might indicate that this is some sort of joke, or a setup of some kind despite knowing Soap would gladly die for Ghost, for his team, for anyone he loved, really. He finds nothing there, just a sparkle of desire and genuine curiosity that's going to kill him one day. "..Lock the door.” Ghost says quietly, moving so Soap can stand, arms folding over his own chest. He can tell it catches Soap off guard, cause he stares for a moment, like the words aren’t fully processing in his head, “I said lock the doors, Johnny.”
That makes Soap snap up and into action, “Yes, sir,” comes out quick, like an instinct, as Soap moves to go to the door, clicking it locked, making sure it’s completely locked, Ghost reckons he does that just because he’s getting what he wants, and he doesn't want anyone to jeopardize this moment. Ghost smiles to himself, soft and hidden, quickly letting it drop when Soap comes back, hands behind his back, like he's on duty and awaiting orders. Ghost wants to praise him, sink his teeth wherever he can and make Soap whine, but for now he just stares at him, makes him squirm a little, make him nervous.
"Awaiting orders?" Ghost chuckles, watches as Soap fights the urge to roll his eyes, giving a jerk of his head that's supposed to be a nod, quick, impatient. The silence starts to drag again, fill their lungs, but Ghost is just trying to figure out exactly what he wants to do to him, what he'll allow him to do. After a moment, Ghost nods and Soap gives him a confused look, like a lost puppy, almost. "I'm all yours, Sergeant." Ghost tells him, arms falling to his sides, waiting for Soap to approach him, which happens quickly.
Soap's on him within a second, hands at Ghost's sides, sliding along his hips, up to his torso, fingers pressing in near his ribs. Ghost is thankful for being at the base, he's not clad in gear, Soap has easy access to his skin, can let his hands travel beneath his shirt, palms warm and calloused, rough to the touch, making Ghost let out a pleased hum, which in return makes Soap smile and press his thumbs into Ghost's hipbones, hard, almost painful. Ghost just lets him, and he knows he's spoiling him far beyond anything he needs, but at this point it's not about need, it's about want - and Ghost's has wants listed three miles long, and Soap's name is in every single one of them, desperate and written in bold ink.
Ghost wants him like a starved lion wants a gazelle, like the moon chases the sun. Ghost wants Soap desperately, pathetically, and he's got him right here, and Ghost's never been good at fighting his impulses when the thing he's wanted is right in front of him and eager to touch and please.
His mask isn't gone immediately though, it seems Soap is taking his time, hands drifting below his shirt and touching at the soft parts of his stomach, fingers dragging along the hair that leads below his belt, up to his pecs, pressing Ghost hard against the wall, making him groan a little at the force. Ever-so rough, Soap is, not that Ghost will complain, it's a good way to touch each other, they both enjoy it, maybe a little too much. But years in the service will do that, he supposes. You become used to rough touches like this, to punches and kicks, bruised lips and the taste of blood in your mouth. It changes you more than you can really describe, and this is just one of those things that changes - how you touch someone when it comes to something like this.
Ghost touches Soap the same way, rough and forceful, almost like a fight, and Soap touches him the exact same, and neither of them ever complain, because they're soldiers and god knows they're far too used to this sort of treatment to suddenly hate it.
Rough hands and soft noises from Ghost, Soap can't seem to keep his mouth shut, which is normal, Ghost is used to telling him to shut the hell up, always hogging the comm's line with some dumb shit. "Can't believe you're lettin' me do this," Soap leans his face into the crook of Ghost's neck, presses his lips to the cloth where Ghost's throat is hidden, and he can slightly feel the connection there, the warmth of Soap's mouth, the heat of his breath, it makes him groan. He's already growing hard, dick pressing against his zipper impatiently, awaiting some sort of touch that he's unsure whether he's going to get or not.
He can’t believe he’s letting Soap do this either, but it’s a bit rewarding, having Soap touch him this way, like he’s been starved of him, like he’s the only thing Soap’s ever needed in his entire life. He feels Soap press a few more kisses to his covered throat, though the sensation is faint and muffled, it’s still nice, still oddly sensual and building up this tension that’s making Ghost feel… he doesn’t know how it makes him feel. Desperate, maybe.
“Do you want me to warn you?” Soap asks suddenly, pulling back a little.
“For?”
“When I take off the mask. Do you want a warnin’?”
Good question, Ghost thinks, but he just shakes his head. He doesn’t care, just wants to be touched at this point, patience growing thin and frayed at the edges, but he’s trying his best. Soap nods, hands going from Ghost’s hips to the front of his pants, undoing his belt effortlessly, Ghost listens to the metal of his buckle clack harshly along as it’s undone, tilts his head back so it’s against the wall, waiting for whatever it is that Soap is going to give him.
There’s anxiety in his throat, clawing at him, almost like his mind is begging him to back out of this, to tell Soap that he’s changed his mind, that he’s not going to let him do this. But it’s just nervousness, the fear of a bad reaction, of Soap seeing something he doesn’t like, deciding that he regrets wanting to see Ghost’s face.
Ghost takes rejection easily, he’s used to rejection. But with Soap? It’s like a gunshot, a wound left to gape and bleed until he’s dry of blood, till it’s too late for any sort of recovery. Rejection from Soap is a shotgun to the chest, Ghost’s discovered. He hates when Soap rejects him, despises it, actually.
“I can feel you thinking,” Soap speaks up suddenly, making Ghost focus back in on his voice, “Shut your brain up. I’m tryin’ to enjoy this.” There’s a finger tracing the waistband of Ghost’s briefs, ghosting along skin, “You should too.” Soap tells him, firm, like an order. Ghost pauses, eyes refocusing on Soap’s face.
His pupils are dilated, grown dark and lustrous, cheeks stained red, teeth showing a little when he grins. That’s enough for Ghost to get himself back into place, nodding once, letting Soap know he’s okay before he resumes his movements, hands sliding up to his torso again, admiring the muscle and softness there, the healthy layers of fat, the strength built beneath it.
“God, even with the mask you’re pretty,” Soap’s growling, looking Ghost right in the eyes, trailing his hands up and up, now sliding along Ghost’s arms, “I wanna tear you to pieces, Lt.” He keeps going, hands eventually landing at Ghost’s shoulders, thumbs pressing in near his collarbones, making Ghost groan under his breath at the pressure, the bit of pain that blossoms.
Ghost chuckles, breathy and soft, “Get on with it then.”
Soap laughs with him, shaking his head, “So impatient, Ghost,” Soap’s fingers get to the bottom of Ghost’s mask, toying with the edges, feeling the cloth. It’s more teasing, and quite frankly Ghost does not have the patience for this. He growls at Soap, throaty and harsh, demanding. Ghost watches his expression change, something from wanting to tease to understanding the impatience. Soap nods, reaches for the top of Ghost’s mask and tugs.
It comes off easily, cloth sliding along Ghost’s face as his heart races in his ribcage, a feeling he’s too familiar with, air hitting his bare skin, eyes closed for a moment just as the mask comes off. Then he’s opening his eyes, looking at Soap, and the expression he’s met with is as simple as a smile.
Toothy and pleased, but also soft and wanting. Soap just smiles at him, eyes flicking around to take in his features. Ghost knows what his face looks like, it’s nothing special, just a face, really. But Soap reaches up, touches at his cheeks, at the bit of stubble grown on his cheeks, along the ridge of his eyebrows, down the slope of his nose.
“Aye, ya’ pretty bastard..” Soap laughs, leaning forward before Ghost can get a word out and kissing him. The kiss is hard, teeth and tongue, licking into Ghost’s mouth, Ghost doing the same, getting a taste for each other. Ghost puts his hands on Soap’s waist, tugs him closer, bodies pressed together, feeling each others heat. Ghost can feel himself blushing, not used to the compliments like this, intimate and full of heat and lust.
The kiss makes Ghost groan into Soap’s mouth, hand going to the back of his neck, like he’s trying to deepen it despite that not being possible, but he tries, kisses Soap like it’s the only source of oxygen he has, like it’ll keep his heart beating. Soap tastes like coffee and gunpowder, exactly how Ghost imagined he’d taste, and Ghost thinks he’s addicted now that he’s had a taste.
“Soap—“ Ghost tries when they pull away for air, but his voice comes out like a whine, and it makes him immediately pause, embarrassed. He didn’t know he could sound like that. It just makes Soap pull back further, give Ghost this look that’s between shock and amusement. Ghost wants to smack the smirk off his lips, but he settles with kissing him again, tightening his grip on the back of Soap’s neck and tugging him forward, licking into his mouth, trying to get more of that taste.
Easily, Soap pushes his hand into Ghost’s briefs, gets a hand around his cock and grips it tight. The slide of his fist is dry at first, and Ghost hisses at the discomfort, but it’s slicked by the precum gathered at his slit, the next stroke wet, just how Ghost likes it. He would’ve preferred Soap spit into his hand, but this works just as good, he won’t complain.
They kiss each other like it’s the last thing they’ll ever do, like it’s a dying wish to memorize one another’s teeth and tongues, to know each groove and know the taste of each other to perfection. And, honestly? Ghost wouldn’t have it any other way, he kisses Soap like he plans to eat him alive, and Soap kisses him just the same - the desperation is shared, potent between them, and it’s making everything feel like so much more.
When Soap tightens his fist around Ghost’s cock, it makes him gasp, disconnecting their mouths, letting them breathe as Ghost groans, head tilted back and pressing at the wall behind him, nails digging into the skin of Soap’s neck. That earns him a throaty chuckle from Soap, all dark and satisfied.
Ghost can feel Soap’s eyes all over him, memorizing every little detail of his face, and it’s.. an interesting feeling. It’s definitely nerve wracking, but really there’s nobody else in the world Ghost would rather be in this position with. Soap is — well, he’s Soap. He’s silver tongued and talks too much, he likes his coffee with a bit of sweetener and hates whiskey. He’s someone Ghost trusts his life with, and there’s something else he feels for Soap he won’t think of right now, because the word is terrifying and he’s focused on other things.
Things like the heat of Soap’s hand, the roughness of his palms, the slick sound that fills the silenced air between them as Soap watches Ghost’s face, as he moans softly and growls, clutching at Soap like a lifeline, like he’s angry at him, almost. It’s only them right now, they’re the only two things to ever exist within this moment - just Soap and Ghost, as things should be.
“God, you’re a pretty one, Lt,” Soap starts, voice smooth, low and hidden, just for Ghost to hear, these words are his only. Ghost moans, throaty, in response, and that just makes Soap stroke a little quicker, like he knows he’s pulling Ghost apart piece by piece with ease. “Fuckin’ beauty, should do this more often,” Soap’s just talking out of his ass now, but it’s doing it for Ghost, he just nods and makes noises in response, can feel himself inching closer to the edge of an orgasm.
“Johnny,” Ghost gasps, head leaning forward, eyes opening and landing directly on Soap’s. He’ll give him what he wants, let him see his face as he cums, let him get a taste of it. “Close.” He warns.
Soap nods, smirking, “C’mon then, Ghost. Let me see what you look like when you cum. Wanna know so I can get myself off to it later.”
The heat builds and builds, pressure building like water pressing against a dam that’s already got a crack in it. It rises and continues to rise until it hits just the top of Ghost’s stomach, till that knot in his gut comes loose and he bucks his hips once, twice, as he gasps Soap’s names a few times over before cumming, hot and thick into Soap’s hand. Soap strokes him through it, chuckling and praising Ghost under his breath, collecting his finish, just for convenience sake.
For a few seconds, Soap lets him get his bearings, lets him breathe and gasp and shake through the aftershocks until he’s somewhat composed. And it’s then that Soap raises his hand, licking up Ghost’s cum from his hand as he looks him right in the eyes.
“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny..” Ghost chuckles, and he watches as Soap’s face lights up with delight.
“Even pretty when you laugh, Lt.”
Ghost flushes, “Shut the fuck up,” he replies, tugging Soap in for a kiss.