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Soap breaks into Ghost’s room when he’s away on missions. And he thinks Ghost is none the wiser.
He's used every pillow on his bed at this point, but his favorite is the oversized tempur-pedic one, fitting between his flush thighs perfectly. Grinding his cock into it, against it, every angle, desperate to elicit a new delicious touch each time.
He covers it with Simon’s dirty laundry from his hamper, just to catch his spend. Definitely not so he can pretend it’s Simon’s leg he’s rutting pathetically against.
Nevermind the several times he’d jerked himself off, mouth full of ghost’s used underwear, drool soaking the fabric. Almost brought to tears, driven fucking insane by the fantasy of Simon, Simon, Simon.
“Feels so good, Simon… Shit.” Johnny groans, cock buried in the folds of Ghost’s dirty shirt wrapped around his pillow. Hands digging into the fabric as he fucks into it, thighs tight around the pillow. His own clothes discarded on the floor next to the bed.
Eyes screwed shut in rapture, thoughts venturing straight to Simon’s thighs as they always do, under him, over him. What they’d look like constricted by his own. Wrapped tight around his head.
He doesn’t hear the door open and close over the sound of his own pleas, blood thrumming in his ears. Ghosts solo mission ended 2 days before schedule.
Ghost silently takes one of the ropes from his tactical vest, making a quick knot. Stalking up to the bed, he loops it around Soap’s neck and *pulls*.
Soap jolts, eyes flying open, his hands wildly grasp the rope as his hips falter. His mouth opens in protest, brows furrowed. Petulant even now in his compromised state.
“Shut the fuck up or I’ll kick you out of here right now, naked and hard. Don't think I won't”, Ghost growls, looming over him, eyes obscured by the hardshell mask.
Soap clamps his mouth shut, shame painted crimson up his sharp cheekbones.
“I don't need you to answer anything. Think I haven’t noticed. Your eyes burning holes into me any time we’re in the same fuckin’ room. Noticed you defiling my shit with your scent, I know what you smell like, Johnny.” He scoffs, “Dirty fucking mutt, getting it all over my clothes, my bed.”
Johnny can’t help the whine that escapes him. Ghost huffs, grabbing him by his stupid mohawk. His bitch-strap made just for this, apparently.
“You wanted me to catch you.” Words gravel behind the mask. It isn't a question.
He drags him off the bed and onto the floor effortlessly, as if he’s light as a feather. Bending over just enough, forcing Johnny’s neck back uncomfortably with his tight grip. Blue eyes burn with humiliation, arousal, he doesn’t have a choice but to meet Ghost’s.
Ghost pauses, seeing his unabashed lust filled gaze reflected in equal measure in those gorgeous fucking eyes.
All dark and promising.
“Tell me you want this.” he murmurs, softer than he meant to, scanning Johnny’s face.
“I want this, need this, I’d do anything. Anything ye say I’ll do it.” He sputters, accent thick with desire, hope. He’d stay on his knees for the rest of his life if it meant he could have anything Simon is willing to give.
Simon straightens to his full height, averting his eyes in the face of a blind devotion he doesnt deserve. He rolls the rope around his hand until it’s taut,
“You wanna be my dog, Johnny? Sit. Stay.”
Soaps posture jerks into a perfect soldier's kneel. Back arched sharply into the words, prodding his cock like a brand. “Fuck… Ghost.”
“Dogs don’t talk. I’ll have to muzzle you like one...”
Ghost reaches onto the bed and rips his dirty shirt off the pillow, pulls it unceremoniously over Johnny’s face, shoving the hem into the rope around his neck with gloved fingers.
“Bite.” Ghost commands, stuffing the fabric into his open mouth. Soap does so without a seconds delay.
Cooperative soldier for once in his life. Ghost sneers behind the mask at the irony. Sergeant Soap MacTavish at his service. Blind and gagged at his own will.
“Good boy.”
He presses his black combat boot between Johnny's legs, not so gently nudging at his sac with the steel toe tip. His stiff cock drools obscenely over the laces, “Christ. Is there anything that won’t get you wet, Sergeant.”.
Johnny’s hips buck hard into the rough texture of the grime covered boot, crying out through gritted teeth, relishing in the pain stroking his throbbing tip.
“You're really getting off on this.” A hypocrite’s proclamation. “I shouldn't be surprised by the way you were rutting into my pillow like a bitch in heat. Pathetic.”
His hips thrust erratically onto the boot, trembling body held up by hands on his naked legs. Floored by the fact that Ghost hadn’t kicked him out on the spot. He could cum from the thought alone.
Ghost yanks him from the ground by the rope, gloved fingers roughly gripping the base of his cock, “Not yet.”.
Soap yelps pitifully under the shirt, release cruelly denied.
Ghost leads them both until the back of his legs hit the bed, dragging Soap with him, up onto his lap. Onto his fat fucking thigh that he fantasizes about at least 5 times a day. He jolts, incredulous, hands fumbling over Ghost’s jeans.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Go on then. Give us a show Johnny.”. He rests his hands back onto the bed, grinding his thigh up, lifting soaps full weight without issue.
Soap lets out a debauched moan absolutely loud enough to be heard from down the hall. How he’d longed for this, pleaded for this into the silence of Simon's barrack. Simon doesn’t do anything to quiet him.
Simon had many times envisioned what Johnny would look like at his mercy, but none of those fantasies did him justice.
Muscular chest taut with need, tan skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Thick chest hair slick, trailing down to his crotch and plush thighs.
Hips rolling up his thigh like he was made for this. Uncut cock swollen and wet between his sculpted abs and Ghost’s leg. Unholy. Sin incarnate. All for him.
Ghost growls low in his throat, teeth bared in a wicked grin at the sight. Gaze feral, makes him want to keep him all to himself, caged, collared, leashed. His faithful mutt.
He presses Johnny’s cock *hard* into his thigh with a gloved hand, halting the movement of his hips. Earning a pathetic whine of protest. Johnny’s skin ignites at the touch, tears well in his eyes, body begging for release. His cock throbs heavy between them.
Ghost rips the shirt from Johnny’s head, selfishly needing to see his expression in the throes of his denial, see the sick pleasure there. Tears streak his red face, looking up at Simon through wet eyelashes.
“Pretty little thing, aren’t you...”
Simon leans in, pink tongue licking through the fabric, rough against Johnny’s cheek. Fuck. Not enough. He rucks up the balaclava in frustration, compelled to taste what’s rightfully his.
His tongue lathes over salty, flushed skin, lapping up the fat tears pouring from those pretty blues. He groans into his slick skin, like a pleased animal finally catching its prey.
Johnny desperately ruts into the hand caging his cock, a low wounded noise tearing from his chest.
“You gonna cum for me pup?” Simon breathes, hot against his cheek.
“Y-yes sir, fuck, goin’ ta cum for ye.” Johnny chokes out, skin feverish as he grinds down with abandon into that plush thigh.
“That’s right. Only for me. You’re mine.” Simon growls into his open mouth, “You belong to me you fuckin’ mutt.”
“I do, Simon I’m yours-” Johnny wails, chest heaving, just at the edge for a third time.
Simon captures his lips in a bruising kiss, hand tugging at his mohawk, other on the rope around his neck. Johnny opens his mouth wide for him, desire spoken in tongues, licking shamelessly into each other’s wet heat.
Tears, spit, wet on both of their cheeks. Simon moans sinfully into the kiss, finally getting a taste. His lips are fucking divine just like Simon knew they would be, his familiar musky scent of mint, fir, enveloping him.
Johnny groans, a sound deep in his throat that rocks into Ghost’s mouth, his hips jerk, strong thighs clenching as hot streaks of cum paint his blue jeans. Ghost breaks the kiss and rests his masked forehead against Johnny's, breath intermingling between their lips.
Simon wipes the cum off his saturated jeans with his gloved fingers, bringing it to his lips, “Didn't expect such a filthy thing to taste this good.” Deep brown eyes locked on Johnny’s as he eats every drop of his cum like it’s a fucking communion.
He takes Johnny in his arms and lays him down in his bed, head on their favorite pillow. He unties the rope. Simon turns to the attached bathroom, taking a look at himself in the mirror.
Purposefully neglected cock obscenely stiff, straining against his jeans. Mask lopsided and rucked up on his face, cheeks flushed, lips puffy. Grimacing at the sight, he pulls it back down. Almost hysterical at the scent of Johnny permeating the fabric.
Simon returns to his bed, Johnny stretched out languidly as if he belongs there, fucked out and content. Dozing in post sex bliss, eyes closed, trust of his superior officer on full display.
Muscular frame lax, sent from the gods to be worshiped. Absurdly beautiful. It makes him sick to his stomach. A man condemned. He removes his gloves.
"Oh.. Now we have a problem…" he thinks to himself, gaze fond as he caresses Johnny’s cheek with the back of his ungloved hand.