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Making out with Ghost is easily becoming his new favourite hobby. Screw drawing, screw journaling and everything else that’s ever held his interest for more than a minute—this is all the enrichment he’ll ever need. There could never be anything else to compare to wet lips and a velvety tongue carrying the best taste in the world: Simon Riley.
Needy mouths had connected practically the moment his sisters and nieces took off back home after spending Christmas Day holed up in this suffocating hospital room, marathoning holiday films just for him like the real MVPs they are. Their flight back to Glasgow must be nearly touched down by now, and the heavy kisses still haven’t let up.
The growing hardness between his legs hasn’t let up either. Or—down more like.
It’s been ages since he’s had the opportunity to get off. Can’t even take care of himself in the shower because a nurse aide waits outside the door and, well, he’s always been a loud one, so better to have some shame. For an entire year now, he hasn’t trusted himself not to scream Ghost’s name when finishing in his own fist.
Long fingers trail down his neck, tangle in his dog tags and pull him in even closer so that air is an impossible fantasy. He can’t help the moan that escapes, released right into the mouth suctioned to his. One hand leaves the tags to move even further down his chest, his stomach, his—
Eager hips rock up into nothingness.
“Where do you think we are, Johnny, a whorehouse?” The wonderful, evil man teases with an open grin plastered over those gorgeously scarred, spit-slicked lips. Soap is going to kill him. Or eat him alive.
“Aye, would that make you the slag or me?” He leans in for another kiss but Ghost pulls away and that—that’s never happened before in the few short days they’ve been doing this. Since they’ve decided to start acting like teenagers only just discovering what a tongue is good for, every kiss has always been met with the same amount of eagerness. Neither of them would dream of denying the other anything. Or so Soap thought.
His feelings don’t stay hurt about it for too long because Simon gets that look on his face. The one he’s well acquainted with, the one that screams, I’m about to make Johnny MacTavish blue screen just for the hell of it. Subtle little thing. Took him months to figure out what that treacherous glint behind warm eyes meant. Now here it is. Quirked up eyebrow and all.
“Who’ve we got tonight?” Ghost asks, looking to the dry erase board.
“Fran,” he says at the same time Ghost reads the board aloud, answering his own question and muttering the name with equal disdain.
Simon’s beef with the nurse from the moment he was transferred to this ward would be hilarious if Soap didn’t feel much the same way about her. She’s not the most…attentive, to put it sweetly. Which is a great quality to have on a night like tonight, when he’s trying to get his rocks off, but it wasn’t so good when he’d started having nightmarish side effects from a new medication. The only time he’d seen hide or hair of her that night was when her shift had started. She hadn’t even come in to do a final report before sunrise.
All he really remembers is the room spinning violently and seeing doubles of everything for hours, trying to yell out but being so feverish and out of it that nothing substantial seemed to come out. Next morning’s staff change had found him in a pool of sweat with clawed up arms and blood caked under his nails from scratching at phantom itches, dried vomit on his chin, and a call button long knocked to the floor. It was also when Simon had returned from a quick overnight trip to Hereford to retrieve more clothes for the both of them.
All in all, a time better left forgotten. Like most of those early days.
Rumor mill has it, she’d gotten the tongue lashing of a lifetime from both her boss and a big, scary SAS man. Now she comes into his room at the beginning of her shift and right before the end of it. Lucky him.
And she’d already made her first round when Simon and the girls were down in the cafeteria, which means she won’t be coming back around for, oh, about nine hours.
“Zero chance of bein’ caught then.” Ghost kisses the corner of his mouth (there he is) in a quick and easy way—a gesture Soap’s working on getting used to. Will probably take a while to get used to, if he’s being honest. His poor brain still can’t quite believe he gets to have this—have Simon’s time and Simon’s kisses and Simon’s heart. A bullet through the skull, a brain injury, and most likely stripped away of his career, but Soap couldn’t be more of a lucky bastard. Truly.
The words catch up to him then, really sinking into his muddled head. Being caught? Being caught. Caught doing what exactly? Ghost isn’t actually be planning on—
A palm presses lightly over the strain on the front of his sweats, and that answers his half-baked question perfectly. The action takes him so much by surprise that an involuntary, full bodied yelp is ripped from his body as if possessed by a scandalised Victorian gentleman witnessing ankles for the first time. The wee scene has Ghost retracting his hand immediately, like the actual gentleman he is. Soap wishes he wasn’t.
“Johnny?”
No, no, no, come back.
Door, is what he wants to say. Close the door.
Another one of those instances where the word just refuses to form on his tongue.
What comes out instead is, “Decency?” as he gesticulates wildly to said door. Aye. Perfect. Nailed it. Simon cracks a smile at his expense, so he counts it as a win anyway. Hell, maybe this brain injury will make him more charming in the long run.
“Shall I put a sock on the knob to protect your delicate virtue, love?”
Oh, he’s got jokes. And despite the obvious joke, the “love” tacked on at the end doesn’t do anything to ease Soap’s delicate virtue (racing heart,) and Ghost knows it too, if that cocky grin is anything to go by. He’s got half a mind to pull the leads to his ECG off just to silence that ever-damning beep.
For all intents and purposes, he should be settled in for the night with no interruptions, but after that mortifying stunt with Laswell the other day…he’d rather err on the side of caution. Now if only they could lock themselves in here—he’d opt for more than a simple handy, that’s for sure.
Then again, even just imagining Ghost’s pale fingers wrapped around him, stroking him off, maybe dragging a thumb over his tip to gather steadily leaking precum, pulling his hand away to bring it up to his mouth to taste what he caused…that’s anything but simple. The thought has him gnawing at his lower lip, heart monitor carrying on like a snitch.
Simon does get up to click the door shut without making him beg. Small mercies. He walks back over but doesn’t resume his spot on the edge of the sheets. No, rather he slowly lowers himself to his knees beside the bed.
Soap’s stomach lurches in the best way. So—so not a handjob then. This is fine, this is…insane. Never in his wildest dreams did he ever imagine the day would come where he’d have Simon’s elusive, pretty mouth around him. Then again, he’d also never thought he’d actually get to kiss him, let alone at the rate they’ve been going at for days now. Near death experiences seem to kickstart a lot in people.
It’s impossible not to feel like a giddy child on Christmas morning.
Beep.Beep.Beep.Beep.
“C’mere,” Simon murmurs with earnest brown eyes peering up at him in the lamplight. God, but he looks beautiful like this. Fucking angelic in his cosy hoodie and joggers, paper mask nowhere in sight ever since their company left. He looks so comfortable in a way he only appears when it’s just the two of them.
Waves of pure adoration wash over him. Soap loves him so much. Right proper in love, smitten to the core. He should actually tell him probably. Soon probably.
They haven’t talked about…what any of it means. Ghost must surely know it, though, without words ever being spoken aloud. Just like how Soap knows Ghost loves him. One doesn’t go bringing someone the revenge bullet that took out their worst enemy if there’s no love involved. One doesn’t practically live at the hospital just to keep company of said someone or decide to leave their career, their life, behind if the other can’t follow. Soap doesn’t really give a shite about whatever technical term they are to each other. They’re each other’s. That’s all that matters.
Then again, of course Soap knows he’s loved with all those grand, dramatic actions. But what the fuck has he done for Ghost to let him know how loved he is in return?
Perhaps a crisis for another time, as gentle hands guide his legs to hang down on either side of the man on the floor. His man. His Ghost. His Simon Riley.
About to go down on Soap in a hospital room.
It’s a charmed life. Add this to the growing list of things Ghost has done for him.
The television is still on the Christmas movie channel from earlier, Love Actually playing quiet in the background. But the thing about romance is people only get together right at the very end, the lad on screen says. And what a juxtaposition that sentence is with one romantic sod at his feet, kissing his clothed hip, end nowhere in sight. Not anymore. They’d almost had the tragic ending. It didn’t stick. Thank Jesus, Mary and Joseph it didn’t stick.
He reckons the only thing left for them is a beginning.
Simon paws at the waistband of his trousers and Soap gets the message loud and clear. He braces his hands behind himself, lifting his arse off the bed. With an unceremonious yank downward, Ghost has his sweats and boxers bunched around his knees in one go; Soap’s already leaking cock bounces free, nearly slapping the poor guy in the face.
The chilly air hitting his newly bared skin has him holding back a hiss of pleasure.
“Perfect, Johnny.”
Ghost wastes no time. He kisses the tip in a sweet, closed mouth gesture, and that does have Soap moaning out loud. The sound seems to fuel the man. He nips at his inner thighs, nuzzles his fucking cheek against his cock before licking a slow strip up the underside from balls to slit.
They’re doing this. They’re really fucking doing this. After all this time, all the pent up frustration and longing, Soap gets to have this. It took almost dying to get it, but it’s his now—it’s theirs. Forever and ever if he can help it.
Beepbeepbeepbeep.
“They’re gonna get an alert that you’re havin’ a fuckin’ heart attack in here.”
“Might be. Steamin’ bloody Jesus, Ghost.”
“Haven't even done nothin’ yet.” The lips uniquely textured by scar tissue smiling against his throbbing cock is an experience all its own.
Doesn’t matter that Ghost’s mouth has barely grazed him. He could cum like this given enough time with just breaths and occasional tongue against his sensitive skin. Probably an embarrassingly short time. Because it’s Simon.
Luckily a torture session of that calibre doesn’t seem to be on the menu as Simon spits in his palm (fuck,) runs a hand down his entire length, grips his base, and sinks down with hollowed cheeks and hooded eyes. Every shred of willpower he owns is used to resist canting forward to fuck himself into the tight heat. He throws his head back, only halfway biting back a hysteric mewl. Couldn’t fuck Simon’s face if he tried though, with the strong arms resting atop his thighs effectively keeping him locked in place. Right where he belongs.
Soap’s got his back to the closed door, Ghost guarded from view, safe between his legs should anyone barge in. But it would be so obvious to anyone about what was going on here. The sounds between them growing louder by the second, his head lolling around like a ragdoll (unable to decide if it wants to remain thrown back in ecstasy or stay gaze locked with the man warming his cock, so doing a bit of both,) heart monitor sounding like a fucking bomb about blow—they’d be clocked immediately.
He’d be lying if he said part of him wasn’t turned on at the thought of someone finding them like this. He’d also be lying if he said he wouldn’t feel smug about it. Let the whole world know who Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley belongs to. Let the world see the myth-like SAS operator fallen to his knees before plain old John MacTavish.
Simon pushes further, maybe a bit too far for his throat to handle so soon—he gags but doesn’t let up and, oh, oh, Soap is embarrassingly close. Not going to last long at all in these conditions.
“Fuckin’ beautiful, sir.”
Ghost hums around him, lashes fluttering shut and when he opens his eyes again they’re cock-drunk and dilated, filled with tears from choking and sucking.
“Yeah. Look at ye. Such a mess for me, Simon.” He can’t seem to keep from babbling—not that it’s anything new, but this…it’s turning Ghost on. His voice. He knows because every time he speaks, Simon’s eyebrows pull together and a moan tries to muffle its way out from around the intrusion stuffed down his throat. It’s the hottest bloody thing he’s ever seen.
He tries to be sexy and suave about it all, tries to thread fingers through the pretty head of curls between his legs, he really tries, but the twitching fucking useless things don’t cooperate. Jabs Ghost right in the eye with his thumb, he does.
“Shite,” he barks before Ghost can even react, as if he’d been the one just poked in the eye mid-suck.
Simon just slow blinks and pulls off with an obscene, wet pop. A wee smile plays at his swollen lips as he catches his breath. Unbelievable. “That how you treat all the bastards who blow you?”
Simon’s voice is wrecked. Scratchy and breathy. Soap did that to him. His cock bobs in the cool, sterile air, throbbing almost painfully in time with his pulse. Fuck, he wants to crawl into the other’s lap and shove his tongue past those lips and sink his entire aching length into him. Wants to take turns having each other right there on the filthy floor.
“Only the special ones,” he mutters, squirming uncomfortably. He needs—he needs Ghost’s mouth back on him now. He needs to blow a load on that bonnie face. He needs, he needs.
Ghost stares up at him and he looks so fucking happy, it’s ridiculous. It’s amazing.
“Turn around.”
It’s—not the words he expected, but far be it from him to question his lieutenant’s orders. Solid plan, that. He’s got half a mind to salute.
With legs made of jelly, he somehow does manage to slide to his feet and pivot, bracing his elbows against the bed, arse on display like a proper whore. It’s a position raunchy enough to be embarrassed about if only he weren’t so damn horny.
And it’s only after he’s assumed the position that he’s got an idea of what’s coming. Oh. Butterflies flap wildly in his stomach.
“Gonna be alright like that for a while?”
He bristles. “Dinnae have to act like I’m geriatric, Simon. I can stand.”
“We’ll see about that.”
And Simon fucking Riley dives headfirst into his arse.
Soap's soul flies from his body the very moment the wet warmth of Ghost's tongue makes contact. Okay. Okay. Getting rimmed was so not on his Christmas 2023 bingo card.
Baby Jesus away in a bloody manger—the sounds.
If he knew Simon would be eating his arse like it’s his last fucking meal, he might’ve shaved or, at the very least, would’ve acquired some more appealing body wash not reeking of hospital standard, the fragrance of which can only be described as Clean.
Ghost doesn’t seem to mind though. At all.
God, he wishes he could see. Maybe next time they should take a video…
“You’re good at this. Fuckin’—how are you so good at this?”
A puff of air against his backside suggests that Simon’s laughing at him. Wanker.
“Don’t answer that,” he mutters, eyes rolling back for a moment when Simon spits on him and slowly nudges a finger inside along his tongue. Soap actually isn’t quite sure that he hadn’t in fact died a month ago and was mistakenly let into Heaven. Because—because Jesus.
Ghost lets up on the assault on his hole for just a second to suck a ball into his mouth, before returning to his post between his cheeks. Filthy fucking dream man. Like some kind of holiday incubus.
“Fuck. Fuck, keep goin’.” The garbled mess escapes from somewhere in the back of his throat, and he can't help but claw at the bedsheets.
“Yeah, Johnny? Gonna come from just my mouth? Right here where anyone could walk in?”
The high pitched whine that bubbles out from between his lips will be an unforgettable humiliation for the rest of his life, he’s sure of it.
“Use your words, love.”
Bleeding hell, there’s that pet name again.
“Yes,” he gasps, hips once again bucking forward, only instead of meeting nothing, this time his filled cock drags between where it’s trapped under the cotton shirt covered press of his stomach and a rough blanket.
Ghost chuckles, the sound vibrating all the way up Soap’s spine. "You like that, don’t you? Like bein’ my Johnny, love?"
Beepbeepbeepbeep—
He can only manage a choked affirmation, mind spiraling into a haze of pleasure. It's as if every nerve ending and pressure point in his body has been set ablaze.
With each languid swirl of Ghost's tongue and every bite to his arsecheek, Soap's control slips further away. He finally grinds back onto Simon’s face, no longer able to resist the primal urge to seek out more of the intoxicating sensation. Deeper, harder, faster. One of Ghost’s hands grip on the side of his uninjured hip to anchor him in place while the other slides up and down his back, rucking his shirt up, down the swell of his arse to his trembling thigh. Soap’s body is being worshiped like he’s Jesus Christ himself—if Jesus were a raging buftie.
Now, if someone were to find them like this…
Well. They’d know that Soap belongs to Simon.
“Mind your head, Johnny.”
It’s a testament to how stupid in love he is that the simple sentence filled with care has his cock jumping against where it’s currently pinned.
Only then does he realise he’s had the side of his head that bears his craniotomy scar rubbing into the bed for god knows how long, creating enough friction to start a small fire. He haphazardly props an arm underneath his cheek. There.
“We gotta do this more often,” he rasps. “When I get out of here—ah. Fuck. We’re either christening a flat somewhere or doin’ this in every room back on base.”
Ghost doesn’t respond, momentarily too busy sucking at his hole, but Soap does feel the big smile. It’s that. That’s what causes his vision to swim, his abs to flex, and if he weren’t so concentrated on making this last as long as possible, he would be done for.
A shadow passes underneath the bottom of the door and it gives a heady rush from his brain down to his gut. He—god—he may have just obtained a new kink from this little escapade.
O holy night, indeed. Dying has absolutely nothing on this. This is—this is his very soul being eaten out of his physical body.
“Keep talkin’,” Simon orders before tongue-fucking him as deep as he can possibly go. His hole clenches. His heart clenches. How the hell is he supposed to form coherent words through that?
“Mo chridhe, Simon, fuck. Mo ghaol.”
In Gaelic is how. Apparently.
It kind of just—slips free in his stupidly fucked out and disgustingly in love state. He hasn't even heard the language since his grandparents died but…maybe some things just stick. Those endearments they’d always thrown back and forth for one another were always his favourite to listen in on. My heart. My love. And now he has a reason to speak them out himself.
Probably he should stop thinking about his dead grandparents right now though.
The man behind him pauses at the words, undoubtedly taken aback by the sudden switch of language. If Ghost gets to undo him with that overly English love, then Soap gets to pick whatever pet names he wants for the other, thanks.
“Mo ghaol,” he repeats quietly for himself, eyes fluttering closed, testing the vowels around his tongue just because he can.
“Johnny,” Ghost whispers in a prayer of sorts, swapping the amen for another finger driving against Soap’s prostate.
He muffles a groan into the crook of his arm. Fucking Christ, he is not about to come untouched right across the sheets like a bitch in heat. How would he even explain that one away to the hospital staff? Could use a change of sheets. Aye, a fresh set was just put on yesterday but something…got spilled. The undeniable drool stain under his chin is already set to be a token of embarrassment.
They just need something to catch it—the box of tissues across the room, his boxers tangled around one ankle, Simon’s coat, anything.
“I’ve got you. Go on. Fall apart for me, Johnny, love.”
That’ll do it, alright.
“Gonna—Simon—please —”
Thank god the indecipherable message somehow gets across.
Ghost reaches between his legs, finds his trapped cock, and pulls it backward so he can get his mouth around it. So Soap can finish down his fucking throat.
Well. That’s one way (the best way) to deal with the mess.
There’s no way the entire floor doesn’t hear him shout out in the most blissful orgasm he’s ever experienced.
One second he’s barely upright on weakened and wobbly legs (something about Ghost’s we’ll see about that comment from earlier ringing in the back of his mind,) the next he’s lying in bed with purposeful hands pulling his trousers back up in a near mirror image of before they started.
Interesting. When was the last time he came so hard he fucking blacked out? Ah, that’s right—never.
His chest heaves for oxygen.
“Needed that, did you.” Simon presses a sweet kiss to his forehead with the same mouth that was sinfully wrecking his arse not five minutes ago. Man’s clearly got the range.
Said man is wearing a huge wet patch at the front of his trousers. Oh. He’s shaken out of that post-nut haze immediately, eyes going wide and pointing at Ghost’s front—as if the poor thing’s probably not embarrassed enough.
“You—”
“Not a word.”
Soap obeys, grinning instead.
Simon takes a change of clothes into the bathroom.
He feels like the most power-drunk person on the face of the Earth. He made Ghost come his pants. Just from offering a more than willing hole for him to play with. Incredible.
But.
Also.
Soap is an idiot.
“Shite. Swear I wanted to touch ye,” he calls into the other room. “I should’a—should’a checked in. I’m sorry, Simon.”
Ghost emerges looking tragically less disheveled than when he went in. “I’m fine, Johnny. Didn’t do it ‘cause I expected somethin’ in return.”
The words sound exactly like confirmation of Soap’s newest worry: Simon doesn’t know. Simon doesn’t know how deeply Soap loves him. Simon doesn’t know that if their roles were reversed, Soap would be right here beside him just as he’s been for him.
Soap won’t have it—he’s putting an end to that shite right now.
“Get over here, ye big dafty.”
They get quite comically comfortable for two military sized men in a cot that’s already too small for one. Ghost is so overly careful of every recovering wound on his body, and there’s not really any series of words to convey what the man means to him. He’s going to try, though.
Soap guides Simon’s head to rest against his chest and he finally gets a hand in those beloved curls. It’s his turn. His turn to wrap the other in his arms, to make him feel protected and adored.
“So. Wasnae your first time doin’ that.”
He cherishes the blush that rises high on cheekbones and ears. Ghost tilts his face away, avoiding his eyes. Cute—he’s embarrassed over mere words recalling what he just did but wasn’t anything less than enthusiastic during the act itself.
“Obviously.”
Soap smiles and twists a ringlet around his, thankfully, not-twitching finger.
“Simon,” he whispers, needing him to look at him for this. The change in tone works—Ghost’s gaze shifts back up and Soap only goes breathless for a split second. “Ye know I love you. Right?”
Eyes go big, blinking in quick succession. Oh, Simon.
“And that I’d do anything in the world for you. Anything. Know that, don't ye?”
Simon doesn’t respond long enough that self-doubt starts to creep in. As if he’s read this all wrong despite the countless loves out of Simon’s mouth, despite the romantic gestures. He tightens the hand in his hair, willing him to say something, anything.
“I know.”
He—
He knows?
“Bit odd hearin’ it out loud, is all, innit?”
Cheeky.
“Bloody weapon,” he hisses. “Thought ye didn’t know. Thought I was makin’ a cunt of myself.”
Ghost laughs, warm and mirthful against his beating heart.
“You do make a cunt of yourself, Johnny, but not for that.” His voice softens up. “Nah, I know. Told me yourself when you came outta the coma.”
He what.
“I what?”
Simon’s eyes crinkle up at him. Bastard’s enjoying this far too much.
“When I came out of the coma? Could’a been bullshittin’ ye, Jesus Christ, Ghost. Wasnae I pumped full of the good stuff? Did I even know who I was when I came to? And ye just—believed me,” Soap chokes, completely blindsided.
“Yeah. Called me the same thing you did earlier, too.”
Oh my god.
Ghost pecks a kiss against his shirt. “But then I know from the way you look at me, the shit you say sometimes. The way you touch me. Not how anyone else has ever acted around me. It’s there, Johnny. Never doubted it.”
Simon leans up to whisper in his ear, “And now I know from how loud you scream my name when you—”
Soap grabs a handful of his arse and grinds him down against his thigh, effectively cutting off the rest of that filthy sentence.
“Not too late to let me take care of you. Got time.”
God, he wants to—mentally begs the man to let him have him just like this, where Soap can see his face as he falls apart. Wants to take whatever Simon will let him have.
But now he also kind of wants to hear every detail about how bloody stupid he acted when he woke up from the coma.
“And whip my cock out right here in the middle of a hospital? Are you mad?”