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“You injured?”
The truck's engine was rumbling, loud, the cab shaking, rough, vibrating right through him. It was a piece of shit; Soap hoped it would run until Las Almas was well to their backs. “Just my arm. I'll hold up.”
“Show me.”
The coarse command came halfway through their trip. Soap guessed. No fucking telling, Ghost wouldn’t answer him when he asked where they were headed. Ghost didn't say much of anything until they were well past the outskirts of the town.
Soap raised up his sleeve, winced when he accidentally brushed the graze wound a little.
Ghost moved his head slightly, took it in from the deep shadows of that damn mask. He made a satisfied noise.
After how chatty they'd been over comms for hours, the silence between them was unexpected. It was thick once they settled into their seats for the drive. It wasn’t awkward, but it was tense.
He could feel everything left unsaid; he could feel what he wanted to say on the tip of his tongue, but Ghost spoke first. “Come ‘ere, sergeant.”
“What?” Soap had to be sure he heard that right. The adrenaline of escaping hadn't yet settled, skin still tingling with it, tight, his cheeks hot. Brain absolute sludge.
“I said c’mere. Closer.”
Soap felt dizzy. They were a scant fucking distance apart. He could feel Ghost’s heat from where he was sitting. Closer ? “What?” he asked again, but he moved, anyway.
His body moved, without his brain’s permission, until his thigh was pressing a hot line against Ghost’s, another uneven patch of road jostling the truck, jostling them together more.
“Get your trousers open.”
“ What ?” Soap sounded stupid, like a goddamn broken record.
“Fuck’s sake, MacTavish, I said unzip . Get your fucking prick out.” Ghost’s voice was even more scratched up, deeper than it was over the radio.
The sound settled in a tight heat right at the base of Soap’s crotch, and the demand made him feel like he was losing his mind. “ Jesus . I'm…”
I’m ? I’m what ? Hard as fuck ? Dying ? Hornier than I’ve ever been in my sad life ?
“Unless I’m wrong? Read that whole thing all wrong? You’re not hard for me?”
“Fuck, you’re not wrong.”
“Yeah? Then show me. Show me what you got for me, sweetheart.” Ghost didn’t even flinch, didn’t stop watching the road.
Soap somehow got his neurons to fire again, got his hand down between his legs and unzipped like he was ordered. His hand was shaking. He’d really hoped, hoped so bad that all that flirting had been real.
‘Feeling weak, are you?’
‘A bit shaky, sir, yeah.’
Soap moaned, broken and desperate, when he got his hand around himself enough to pull the whole thing out, obedient for his lieutenant. More obedient than he’d ever been on a battlefield.
He was so badly gone–cock angry red, veins pronounced, slit leaking.
“Christ, that looks painful, Johnny. Does it hurt?”
The strangled noise he made would have to count as a response.
Ghost laughed, low and breathy, got his big, gloved hand around the base of Soap’s neck and tugged, just a bit.
“Put your head in my lap, go on. Face against me,” his voice had gone noticeably ragged, his legs parting, wide, so Soap could get down between them without knocking his head against the steering wheel.
Soap let him guide, let him do whatever the hell he wanted.
“Where the fuck’s all that cheek now, Soap?” Ghost’s voice was definitely wavering, all gravel and need when Soap buried the entirety of his face right at the heat between his thighs, and fucking breathed all that in.
Sweat, musk, god , Ghost’s thighs were damp through his jeans; it was disgusting and it was delicious. And Ghost was just as rock hard as he was. Soap whimpered, “ Sir .”
“Yeah, sergeant. Can’t do fuck all around you without it gettin’ like that. I’ve been hard for half a goddamn day.”
Ghost turned the steering wheel. Soap couldn’t see where the hell they were going, but he felt the truck swerving off the road, swerving off somewhere–
“Now touch me, Johnny. Touch me while I find a fuckin’ place to pull over.” the hand he wasn’t using to drive like a fucking lunatic busied itself around Soap’s cock, completely unexpected with how distracted he was, and Soap had definitely lost his fucking mind.
“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the warmth, teasing through Ghost’s thick glove, the fact that it was Ghost’s hand around him–he was pushing up into the touch like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
The adrenaline that had started fading to a faint buzz was surging through him again.
Adrenaline mixed with the potent arousal making his lower stomach clench, pelvis straining toward Ghost’s hand, “God, yeah, Lt. Fucking shite , I’ve... wanted ,” Soap choked out the words at each nice, firm squeeze of Ghost’s palm.
Words –that was generous–they were barely more than wrecked whines.
“Little needy thing, huh? Focus, MacTavish. My cock.”
Right, right. Focus. Hard fucking thing to do when Ghost was finally touching the raging erection he felt like he’d had for two months straight. The face full of crotch heat and masculine stink wasn’t helping, not that he didn’t want to actually see Ghost, like that.
He did. Fuck, he did.
But he loved just having his nose buried, too. Loved the filthy humanity of him right there for him to nuzzle and mouth at, and he mouthed at him, wet and frantic through Ghost’s dirty, bloodstained jeans, his eager inhales real, real loud in the small cab.
Ghost growled, stopped touching his dick, and Soap growled, weak at the loss. Irritated . “ Ghost –”
“Johnny, get me out these bleedin’ pants, so fuckin’ help me.” The foot that wasn’t on the gas pedal slid across the upholstery, his knee bumping up against Soap’s, pushing at it so he could get those thick, substantial thighs wide, wide open for him.
The straps of his harness dug in, denim going so taught over Ghost’s bulge that he could see the entire outline of it. “ Och ! You’re a fucking monster,” he croaked.
Was it surprising? Not really.
Ghost laughed again. Soap hated that low-pitched, sex-filled sound, the way it sent an immediate shiver tearing viciously through his whole body.
No, no. He loved it. Do that again , he wanted to say.
His cock twitched, convulsed with more dribbling precome right into his trembling lap.
Soap’s hands were tucking in under Ghost’s utility belt, trying to find the metallic hint of his button, but the road was rough again, and Ghost was speeding up . “Aren't you pullin’ over?”
“Think we might have a tail. So no,” he punctuated his breathy words with a press of his hips forward, trying to get contact with any of Soap. “You always this fuckin’ slow? Going to come in my skivs, sergeant, fuck.”
He was looking in the rearview when he said it, but a hand fisted into Soap’s hair, tugging his neck back a little with all the force of someone who had no idea just how strong they were.
It ached.
Soap didn’t waste anymore time, even though he was tempted to get fussed at some more, insulted some more by that toothy British sass. He dragged Ghost’s zipper down, dragged the hem of his jeans down, yanked his black briefs forward and over, off his ridiculous cock.
Soap had never seen anything so delectable.
He was drooling, already. He was drooling and his cock was drooling and hurting worse and he didn't even have the fucking thing in his mouth yet.
“You give head?” Ghost asked, hand tugging so hard in his hair that he felt tears sting the corners of his eyes. What the fuck , pull it harder. He couldn’t get the sentence out. Just nodded like Ghost had asked him if he wanted to live.
“Brilliant, give it.”
Soap groaned. The prick, ordering him around like that.
He’d give him a piece of his fucking–he interrupted his own thoughts with his lips finding Ghost’s tip, pink and pretty and so round, and promptly choking himself on as much of his length as he could cram in his starving mouth.
“Mmmmmph–”
“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart.” Finally, Ghost’s voice matched his. Destroyed.
He smirked around his mouthful when he felt the truck sway, left. Right.
“Suck, Johnny. Give me somethin’–”
Soap set about sucking, ignoring his gag reflex, ignoring the painful prodding of Ghost’s cockhead at his throat. He’d do anything for the moans that were filling the humid air, do anything for the death grip Ghost had in his hair and on the wheel.
Anything for the thrill of not knowing if they were going to fucking crash.
“You're going to kill us,” he popped his mouth off for a minute, licked at the leaking come at his soft little tender slit.
The answering sob was insane . Simon Riley, Simon Riley sobbing for his mouth. “Not a bad way to die, though, eh?” Ghost managed, pushing Soap’s face back against his cock. “Keep going, please. ”
Soap kept going. Soap got his own hand around himself, fucked up into it as he took Ghost, took him in his throat like he wanted to take him in his arse.
“Going to feed you, sergeant. Pull off if you don’t want it.”
Soap took Ghost deeper.
His spend tasted like salt, tasted like copper, tasted so fucking good, filled his mouth so much that Soap wondered when the last time the poor sod had spilled any.
The truck swerved all the way to one side, so hard that Soap felt the road change. Smooth to rough gravel. Fuck.
‘You’re out o’ your mind, Lt.’
‘That’s for sure .’
The big bastard was certified.
Soap gulped at the air when his lips relinquished Ghost’s dick, breathing hard, deep.
“Look at you, love. You took that so fucking good. Took the whole thing,” all that filth spoken on shaky, laboring breaths, and Ghost had stopped the truck, right there on the side of the motorway.
He grabbed Soap’s chin with one hand, the other tugging roughly at the neck of his mask, hitching it up. He didn’t give Soap enough time though, fuck. Fuck, his exposed jaw. His pale skin . The gnarled streak of a scar across the underside of his chin.
“Nah-ah,” Ghost slapped his hands away, hands back on the steering wheel, foot back on the gas. “Curious lads get nothin’, Soap. Take my glove off, would you?”
Ghost stuck his wrist out, and that little bit of exposed flesh between his jacket sleeve and the edge of his glove made Soap hungry, all over again.
One bite into that skin.
He pulled, tugged the glove off. Can I chew on them, sir ? Those fingers. They were long. They looked like they could do a lot.
“Now spit.”
Soap reeled.
He spit right into Ghost’s bare palm, and he watched, watched as Ghost wrapped those long, long, slick fingers around his cock, the agony of it ripping a long, animal sound from him, his body slumping against the truck’s seat, eyes shut.
No way.
“I'm going to run you in so hard when we can get alone.”
No way was he about to come.
“Lean forward. Come on now. Can’t make a mess. Appearances to keep,” Ghost sounded so goddamn casual.
Soap slumped forward, hands on the dash, angling so all his come dribbled, shot out onto the console, onto the floor, onto the leather toes of his boots.
His sigh shuddered over him, a sob whimpered out of him. “ Simon. ”
There was that silence, again, as they both caught their breath, as Soap tried to sit up.
A thought came to him, though, compelling, cutting through the thick haze. “So I wasn’t dreamin’ it, then? Al Mazrah. That night–” When Ghost had come to him after, half asleep in the empty hangar, sprawled, face up on a bench.
One of those leather-clad fingers had brushed his cheek, tracing it down to his chin.
He’d really thought it was some sort of fevered fantasy his battle-tired, combat-wiped body had willed into existence.
“No.”
That was all the arsehole said, and Soap could tell he wasn’t going to say anymore.
Soap smiled, anyway, to the side, to himself.
Ghost was fuckin’ sweet for him.
“Now sort yourself out, soldier. We’re there in five.”