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The stark difference in grip between the rocks and slippery, muddy ground full of puddles has the car attempting to skid in odd directions, making Soap slow down their path and tighten his grip on the wheel.
“Think we´ll find some visitors?”
“I doubt anyone who tries to open a military safehouse with a crowbar would drag their asses up here, Johnny. But you never know.”
The briefing for the assignment had been clear. After finding proof of attempts at a forced entry in a high security, well hidden safehouse near Hereford, several discreet patrols have been sent to check on the other safe locations. It might be some accidental run-in, turned into a poor attempt of breaking in for fun. Or, the product of an information leak. So here they are, directed to register the furthest safehouse from base located in the middle of the woods northwest, over 200 miles away. The kind of recon mission that usually required more people, with less rank; but a confidential location is a confidential location. They could handle themselves just fine.
It was nice, anyhow, getting out of base for something like this. The silence is pleasant between them, with the soft drizzle of the rain that started by the time they went off trail blending in with the radio kept at a low volume.
Until it isn’t.
Things take a turn when the wipers stop working, coming to a full stop in the middle of the windshield.
“What the-” Soap reaches to turn the switch off and back on again to no avail, when the radio starts to sputter, more static than music before dying down. Apparently, going on a low risk mission meant that you got to drive hot garbage instead of a vehicle.
“Fucking hell, no.” They share a look, a split second before Soap's eyes are back on the road. Ghost reaches for the comm in his vest.
“This is Ghost, Laswell, do you copy?”
“Laswell here. Everything alright with you boys?”
“There's an issue with the car’s voltage. Windshield wipers stopped working and-. Shit. The headlights flicker. Path is clear so far.”
“I hear you. How far are you from the safehouse?” They're quite close, according to the GPS coordinates. Small mercies.
“Soap here. We're six miles from the destination at most.”
“That’s good. Best case scenario; there’s a loose battery terminal or connector. Worst; the alternator has decided to take a one way trip to the landfill.”
“Love when you give us good news. Ghost here is beaming with joy.” He is decidedly not.
“That I am.”
A wet leaf sticks to the increasingly blurry windshield, and Soap puts his left hand back on the wheel. He can't see shit.
“A pleasure to bring them, as always. Be careful, and keep the car turned on until the perimeter is clear. I'll have a talk with the mechanical department.”
“Copy. Soap stays.”
“Ghost, you clear the zone if it looks safe to do on your own. Another ride is on the way to tow your vehicle if needed, you know it’ll be there in four hours. If anything is amiss, sitrep quick and turn back.”
“Roger that, Laswell. Out here.”
Ghost searches through all the compartments within his reach, while Soap dodges trees that come into view mere feet away, the thrashing practically throwing the other man against the car door after a very close call with a fallen trunk.
“Found two sets of battery clamps next to the multimeter. We could connect them to the safehouse generators.”
“Might avoid the towing.”
Ghost lets out an affirmative hum.
By the time they reach the bunker the annoying drizzle is turning into heavy rain. The surroundings look clear, the wet ground crowded with leaves and the birds still chirping through the rain, with no signs of recent activity on sight.
Soap brings the car to a stop, closer than what was initially planned, and careful to not let the engine die out on them. The fogging up on the glass starts to dissipate when Ghost opens the passenger door. He turns to look at him. The cotton balaclava shows off how his brow lightly frowns, and the scarce sunlight gets to reflect in his eyes.
“I'll be right back.”
“Efficient as always, Lt.”
“Count on it. Don't get too lonely waiting, Johnny.” The constant name calling certainly doesn’t help. By now, Soap has fully memorized the way Ghost said it. How his tone sounded warmer around the word.
The wet earth dulls out Ghost’s steps as soon as he gets out of the car to disappear between the trees, silent and deadly with the loaded rifle pointing forward.
He might worry for any other man on his own in the middle of the forest. But he was something else. The way he carried himself, swift and precise as if he was guided by the wind, careful to not waste any energy he could reserve for when the time came to be violently ruthless.
And boy, did it awaken something in Soap.
It should worry the hell out of him, the way he could stare at the man’s hands as they tore through muscle, broke bone, and crave to have them running through his body, fingernails digging in and still bloody. It's in the way that Soap can't stop looking at him since the moment this started months ago. How it has made him become a part of something bigger in the worst possible way, outside of the carefully built system that saves lives and takes them, never for selfish reasons. Because he would kill for that man without an order, against an order, control slipping through his fingers like a weight tied to a rope, burning the bare skin of his palms.
The earpiece crackling to life rightfully brings him to the present moment.
"There’s no one in sight, I'm at the ventilation grilles. They're clogged with mud.” He’d be amazed if any bastard who was capable of breaking into a high security bunker didn’t think about getting some sort of airflow.
“Good sign.”
“Could have done with a little action.”
“Think we´ll have time to create our own?”
He's joking. Kind of. There's a huff at the end of the line.
“Careful, Johnny.”
“You headin’ back?”
“Yeah. The perimeter is clear.”
Soap’s good mood flew out the window the moment they looked under the hood to find no loose connectors and a low, low voltage on both of the batteries.
“Shite.”
-
Over three hours to go.
Three hours of waiting, locked away from the world, breathing in the stale air of the old, clearly-not-broken-into bunker reconditioned as a safehouse. Having only one small tarp had Soap removing his own jacket to shield the second battery (because of course, the damned Rover needed two) from the water on the way in. The urge to kick the batteries into the ground had been hard to resist. He’s definitely not going to wait in his gear. He’s cold, clammy, and pissed off, damn it.
So he steps out of the MTP overtrousers (that thankfully kept his jeans dry) before moving on to unclasp the clammy velcro straps of his vest. He carefully places the rifle on the nearest table, loaded and ready, just in case. As he turns back, he’s surprised to find Ghost following his steps, leaving the gear next to his rucksack on the floor.
“Didnnae think I'd see you ruin your tactical persona like this.”
“I trust you'll keep the secret, Johnny.”
Ghost sits down on one of the beds, wrinkling the dusty, neatly tucked in blankets. He knows what a lucky bastard he is just for seeing this.
For having his trust.
“Aye. That I will.”
Time passes slowly, the tension in his bones is being quickly replaced by the restlessness that always comes with having absolutely nothing to do. He's checked if the exit was closed properly, even though he knew he had placed all the locks, and secured the hold of the battery clamps on the terminals twice. He was now seriously considering finding a cloth to sweep the dust with, as he made an inventory of the items that he carried on his backpack (turns out, the two granola bars he had were very, very expired).
It got him in trouble more often than not when he was a kid, the need to do something. To keep his hands busy with a purpose.
It might get him in trouble now, with the way Ghost is staring at his pacing. The man’s leg is slightly bouncing up and down, as his deep brown eyes follow him across the bunker until Soap is ready to either smack him, or lick his mouth through the fabric of his mask. Or both.
“Soap. Sit your sorry ass down somewhere.”
The bed does look warm and comfortable. Simon fits those criteria too. So Soap turns, and sits down right next to the other man, entirely too close to be excused as professional.
To make a habit out of this is a really bad idea. He’s aware of it, they both are. He can see it in the way Ghosts eyebrows are raised so they almost disappear into the balaclava for a moment, before they furrow as he scans his face, stopping by his lips for a moment before looking back straight ahead.
“We should rest.” Long, blond eyelashes light up from the dim light coming up above. He can feel the other man’s side against his own, from the heat radiating through his thighs to the press of his upper arm against Soap's shoulder.
The sensations of the wet shirt’s fabric clinging onto him fades out to the back of his mind, overtaken by the creeping sensation crawling beneath his skin that he's gotten to know too well, a yearning that never managed to fade out and was carving a home into his bones in a way he’d rather not think about. It pulls him forward into Ghost's orbit, into the arms of the lethal, quiet and utterly weird man sitting next to him.
For a few moments, they just sit there, side by side, the only sounds being the distant buzzing of the generator and the trickle of soft rain against the safehouse’s ventilation system.
“Soap.”
“Simon.”
Ghost looks at him. His eyes lack the usual edge, replaced by something Soap might dare to call doubt, that was directed to him in rare, quiet moments.
“Soaking my shirt up won’t dry up yours.” Soap huffs out a laugh, and slowly stands up.
“M’sorry. Let me-“ There's a wet thud as the fabric hits the floor.
“What on earth are you doing now, Johnny.”
He knows he shouldn't turn this into an opportunity. But god, does he want to. He wants to feel Ghost´s hands run up his sides. He wants the way they pull him closer by the belt loops, how they fiddle with the button of his jeans as his eyes never leave his own.
He wants everything.
Again, and again, and again.
“Should I sit back now?” Soap takes two short, measured steps so he's facing Ghost, practically standing between his legs. Ghosts' eyes rake through his body, gaze dropping to his lips before properly taking in his naked chest and following the dark trail of hair until it disappears behind the waistband of his jeans.
Slowly, he reaches one hand out, sliding up his thigh through the rough fabric until it reaches his groin. He holds his thumb there, doing a slight swiping motion on his length. He can feel the blood quickly rushing south. Ghost seemingly notices as well, if the way his eyes are glued to the front of his pants is anything to go by.
“Fucking hell, come here.”
Then, it’s anything but slow. The contact turns into an iron grip that pulls him forward by the hips, slotting him against his body as Soap desperately reaches for Ghost's face with both his hands to kiss him through the fabric, practically bruising his lips in the way he presses against it, because goddamnit, he needs him to be closer. He licks the fabric, filthy and absolutely obscene so he successfully gets a groan out of the other man, mouth opening against his to kiss back. He's vaguely aware of Ghost's free hand fumbling between their bodies to reach the mask, drawing it up to his nose before diving back and good god, yes, this, this is what he wanted, to have his lip worried and sharply bitten at, to feel the glide of another tongue against his, licking into his mouth and panting as gets his ass groped.
“Johnny-” The other man gasps against his mouth. He can only groan in response when Ghost's gloved hands slip underneath his jeans, squeezing his cheeks, spreading them, and pulling him closer. “-Clothes off.”
Soap immediately goes for it, popping the button and unzipping the fly before pulling both his jeans and underwear down his legs without drawing his lips away. Ghosts' shoulders start shaking in silent laughter by the time the heap of clothing that pools at his ankles gets stuck on the boots.
“Shut it, shut up-” Eventually, he does have to stumble away to untie the goddamn shoelaces and kick the clothes behind him. Simon is still grinning at him, fully clothed and staring him down shamelessly by the time Soap flops down into the bed on his back.
“So that’s it on your end?”
“Wasn’t the one who started stripping.”
The thin mattress dips with the weight of Ghost’s body as he positions himself between his legs, which Soap maintains closed as he raises his eyebrows, propped up on his elbows. Ghost runs his fingers from his ankles up to his knees and tugs, attempting to part them. He makes a disapproving sound from the back of his throat, and proceeds to reluctantly pull off his gloves. “Better now, Johnny?”
Having no rashes in sensitive areas is better indeed, as he learnt the hard way a couple months ago.
“I was also thinking about ripping that damn mask o-“ he’s cut off when Ghost spits on his cock. “-Jesus.”
The excess drips down onto his belly, and he hears Ghost swear faintly. The man's bare fingers are softer, warmer against his thighs, and this time he lets them spread open, a hand sneaking between them to wrap around his hardness to stroke him. The tightness of his grip, accompanied by the slick glide from base to tip feels absolutely heavenly, with his thumb rubbing over the head, brushing the underside in every downwards movement.
Soap groans, and then he feels a tongue.
He didn’t realize his eyes had closed until they flew open to find him licking up his shaft, pressing a wet kiss to the tip before sucking it into his mouth.
“Fuck-“ Ghost’s tongue is swirling, pressing into his slit and before he sinks down and sucks. Soap has to bite the inside of his cheek so as to not cry out in pleasure, the vision of scarred and surprisingly full lips stretched out to take him to the hilt, blond eyelashes fluttering before dark eyes settled firmly on his own, making him lose his mind a little more. Wet sucking sounds were filling the room in tandem with Soap’s gasps, the pleasure downright delicious as Ghost took him, his half lidded eyes never leaving his own, even as his throat fluttered and struggled around his length. The hand that was previously stroking him had now moved to cup his balls, lightly squeezing and caressing before collecting the drool pooled in them, and moving further down. He threw his head back when a thick digit circled his entrance, spreading the slick, having him clench down on instinct.
“Don’t get shy on me now, Soap.” Ghost pulled himself off his cock, his finger pressing and massaging in circular motions. Soap forces himself to relax.
“M’ not.”
Ghost hums. He sinks the tip of his finger, drawing it out only to fuck it back in a little deeper.
“That’s it, that’s a good lad.” Soaps dick twitches at the praise, and he can’t help the low moan that slips out. It’s been a long time since he’s let anyone do this, see him like this, open and taking, embracing the sensation of being taken care of that made him weak in the knees.
The lonely nights when he fingered himself didn’t count. It was no one’s business but his own how for the last few months, he always ended up with the soft balaclava he kept in his nightstand drawn to his face, fantasizing about a scaringly similar situation to the one he’s in right now.
And it feels like heaven, fuck it feels like heaven, the slight stretch and the constant rhythm that Ghost sets until his finger is buried to the knuckle. He rubs against Soap’s walls, and the deep, satisfying sensation of being filled makes him sigh. That’s until he feels Ghost press against the swollen bundle of nerves that has him arching his back, his exhale turning into a choked gasp.
Jesus, he can reach it so well with those long fingers of his. He feels Ghost groan around his cock, and he’s being rubbed in slow, deep circles with an intensity that borders in too much when the man above him starts fucking his finger in and out, even deeper, delightfully pressing against the sensitive spot with every thrust. He barely registers Ghost's mouth pulling off before he feels spit right on his entrance, the excess dribbling between his asscheeks. He moans, and his voice is starting to pitch up even as he tries to keep quiet, when he feels a second finger being pushed into him, fucked into him. He lets out a curse, and Ghost is kissing the tip of his hardness.
“Hell, you’re tight.” He can only spread his legs.
“And you’re-“ his prostate is being abused again. He can feel precome dripping into his belly. “-not a small man yourself, Simon.”
Bleeding hell. Everything is big, his fingers are big, pleasure that bordered on pain flowing through him as his tight ring of muscle is being stretched, with not enough slick so it burned, massaging soaps prostate in a way that drew sounds out of him that you would expect out of a whore. And Ghost’s cock is even bigger, good god, and it must hurt when he fills him up, when he fucks him brutally into the mattress.
It’s too intense, too good.
He can feel the familiar white hot pleasure coiling deep in his belly, as Ghost sucks him into the burning heat of his mouth. So he warns him, choking out his name and wiggling his hips, as if to draw himself closer or further away, he isn’t sure. Ghost makes the decision for him, pinning his hips down with his free hand and fucking him deeper, before flicking his tongue fast and hard over the tip.
“Don’t fight it, Johnny.”
It’s not negotiable. Ghost takes him in again, wet and deep and tight and Soap can’t resist it any longer. Pleasure overtakes him, his body arching up as he comes, spilling thick ropes inside Ghost’s mouth.
He’s barely aware he’s crying out. It’s obscene, how he’s being milked in and out for all he’s got until he’s gasping for the other man to slow down.
Vaguely, Soap registers Ghosts fingers still inside him, their presence turning into a pleasant background buzz as he draws out of his cock. The man climbs on top of him, and his eyes, god, those eyes, are burning into his own when he feels a hand press into his jaw.
The command is clear.
Open.
So he does, pliant and obedient, and Ghost mirrors the gesture, lets the mixture of spit and come resting on his tongue to dribble from his lips down into Soap’s mouth.
Fucking Jesus.
It’s filthy, and gross, and his eyes roll back at the salty bitter taste of his own release hitting his mouth, stains his face, groaning as his dick pitifully twitches.
He hears the other man choke out a curse above him when he swallows. The world is spinning a little bit around him.
It’s probably not been too long when Ghost draws out his fingers, slow and steady.
“Be right back.”
There’s a kiss to his shoulder, and a squeeze to his arm before the cool air hits him again, with nobody to shield him from it.
There’s the distant sound of rustling, and Soap doesn’t bother to open his eyes to look, deciding to let his thoughts ramble out of his mouth.
“I wannaed to keep going, jesus. Wannaed you to fuck me.”
He hears a soft humming noise acknowledging him from his right. He goes on.
“Coulda been loud.” He muses. The mattress below him dips. And then something cold is pressed into his palm. When he looks, he finds several foil packets of aloe vera gel staring back at him.
Soap can’t help the laugh he lets out, screwing his eyes shut again as he clutches the packets.
“Fucking bastard.”
“That’s the plan, yeah.”
The punch that lands on Ghosts is side is barely strong enough to be considered one.
The other man chuckles, taking the gel away from Soap, hands bracing his ankles and steadily moving upwards, caressing his knees before prying his legs apart. And Soap lets him, lets Ghost spread him back open for him to use.
“Beautiful.”
The cool dribble against his rim makes him hiss. Ghost’s two thick fingers circle his entrance, and they press back inside in one swift movement, the glide slippery and easy as they fill him up again.
“Fucking beautiful.”
Ghost dedicates himself to massaging his prostate, scissoring his fingers to give him the closest thing to a break he knows he’s going to get from now on.
Soap can’t help himself by the time his body goes lax with the stimulation and starts moaning again, a steady stream flowing from him that begins to rise in volume when Ghost starts thrusting again. He can only take it, mind numb from the pleasure, from the hand that is reaching to slowly stimulate his soft, still wet cock.
The third finger that suddenly joins the other two inside him has Soap clutching the sheets so hard his knuckles go white. The wet, squelching sounds of Ghosts fingers fucking into his ass to get him ready are now perfectly audible within the walls. He can feel his cheeks burning.
“You can take it Johnny, I’ve seen you worse for wear.”
Ghosts eyes drift from where his fingers are buried to his face, his brown eyes turned black by the sheer size of his pupils, the obvious tent in his pants digging into the back of his thighs.
He’s feeling lightheaded as his dick is slowly hardening again, the overstimulation turning into pleasure as Ghost’s thick fingers are thrusting in and out of him, pressing into the abused spot that is making him see stars.
“That’s a good boy, look at you. How you suck them in.”
Ghost is now forcing his legs to part even wider as he stares down at his slick entrance. God, he just won’t stop looking, and it’s humiliating, how he’s practically shaking, cum sticking to his belly and the taste of it on his tongue, while he can’t even get to fully see the bastard's face.
“Simon.” His voice is breathy, high pitched and almost unrecognizable to Soap’s own ears.
“Johnny.” His big, brown eyes are immediately locked on his. He scissors his fingers, and Soap grabs onto his shirt to properly pull him on top of his body to grasp his jaw, tugging at the balaclava.
“Need this off-“ Ghost digs his teeth into his neck, hard enough to make him groan, careful enough not to leave a mark.
“-Need to see ye, please, Simon, wanna see yer face when ye fuck me.” The words come out of his mouth in a slurred jumble.
Ghost presses his forehead into his.
“Do it.” He doesn’t need to be told twice. Soap tugs it out of the way in one harsh pull, then grabs him again, roughly caressing his scarred cheeks, the strong bridge of his nose as he clings to him. He wants, needs Simon like this, him taking, giving everything, all the time, damn the consequences. He kisses him hard, licking into his mouth until Ghost suckles and bites his lips.
“Simon.”
He draws his fingers out, leaving Soap feeling uncomfortably empty, clenching around nothing as the sound of the belt buckle fills the room. The man’s erection looks borderline painful as it springs out, impossibly hard and leaking precum into the sheets as his pants and underwear pool around his thighs. Simon hisses and takes himself in his hand, shaking in relief.
And what a pretty sight it is.
Soap had to give it to him, Ghost's discipline and patience remained, even in bed. It was admirable, the methodical edge in the way he stroked himself up until he was slicked all over. Something deep inside Soap wanted to see how long it would take him to shatter that, to have him broken and desperate and sloppy under him.
That particular train of thought is cut off as a slicked hand grabs at his good leg to hook it on Simon’s shoulder, thumb grazing up and down the skin as he presses the tip to his entrance, circling a bit. It's a teasing, waiting gesture, his eyes set on Soap’s.
“Get on with it, Simon-“
Without looking away, Ghost pushes the head inside with a groan. The burn is immediate, his cock splitting him open despite being previously well stretched.
It feels huge, and it hurts. It's so good.
“Fucking hell- Simon-“ With a man this large, it was always meant to hurt. He deliriously hopes so. Simon is quietly gasping above him.
“Good?” Soap manages a shaky nod, and his hands reach out to dig into Ghost's arms when he pushes in deeper.
“Full.”
“S’ it should be, sweetheart.” He feels his insides parting, accommodating the other man’s dick as he forces himself all the way in with a deep, ragged moan. It makes Soap cry out, and Simon’s lips are on his temple, kissing his cropped hair damp with sweat before moving on to his mouth, swallowing the sounds he’s making. His thumbs are rubbing slow, soothing circles into the soft skin of his hips as he gives Soap time to adjust.
He doesn’t know how many seconds, or minutes it takes for him to get his breathing under control, Simon’s cooing intertwined with soft, constant kisses. It’s more intimate, more vulnerable than it has any right to be, the way Simon’s eyes map his face before kissing him again. His heart is hammering in his chest, and the other man can probably feel it against his own as Soap gasps at him to go ahead, to take. Ghost drags his thumb along where they’re joined together, rim fully stretched and slick with gel, before slowly pulling out until only the fat tip is being sucked inside.
“You’re so good, open like this-“
And with a slow roll of his hips, he pushes back in, as deep as he can go. Simon groans above him, in tandem with Soaps own punched out, broken sounds.
“-So tight. About to split for me.”
He repeats the notion, again and again until It’s slowly becoming a tortuous pace, the burn turning into sharp pleasure that accompanies the deep, delicious sensation of being filled up.
He wants more. He can take more.
So he draws Simon close by his tight shirt, pulls it up so it stays bunched up against his armpits. It hides the tattoos on his collarbones. Pity.
Soap uses the hand that isn’t clutching the bedsheets for dear life to grab a handful of Simon’s wavy hair. It’s just long enough to tug at it, and Soap is thankful for that when it draws out a whine from the man above him.
“Gimme more, Simon.” He pulls harder.
The warning he gets are strong fingers digging into his hip and in the soft meat in the back of his thigh, clamping until it almost breaks the skin to make him bleed. It makes him throw his head back, and then he’s being fucked properly, hard enough that the slapping sound of skin on skin fills the room along with his gasps.
It’s delicious, obscene, how Simon is carving a space inside just for him, so no other bastard could hold a candle to the way he’s pressing Soap down, nearly folding him in half, and the angle is downright abusing the swollen bundle of nerves. Belatedly, Soap realizes that the broken, high pitched whimpers that echo in his ears are his own, his voice barely recognizable to the point where it embarrasses him. The attempt to cover his mouth with his hand doesn’t last long, as strong fingers immediately wrap around his wrist to pin it to the mattress.
“Oh no you don’t-“ Ghost gasps out. He angles his hips, fucks somehow deeper. “You keep yourself sounding pretty for me, Johnny”
He can only moan in response, the overwhelming feeling soothed by a mouth on his, swallowing all the pitiful sounds until he’s as used to hearing them as he can, before moving to press a wet kiss to his jaw. Ghost mouths at his neck before biting down, leaving marks on his shoulders, and good god he was pressing against all the right spots.
He whined into the other man’s temple. It smelled like Simon, everything was Simon, from the sting on his shoulder, to the delicious, brutal thrusts inside him.
He feels two fingers prodding at his parted, bruised from kissing lips. All he can do is lick and suck them desperately into his mouth, taking them as deep as they can go while running his tongue between the digits.
And Soap wants, needs to come. The overwhelming feeling of fullness everywhere, the drag of Simon’s belly against Soap’s cock being nearly not enough as he feels himself leaking. He’s canting his hips up, trying to somehow get Ghost in deeper, for him to make himself at home buried in his guts.
Simon notices, because of course he does. He looks down at his weeping cock, precome now steadily dripping and so hard it hurts.
“Johnny.” Soap moans around his digits as a response.
“Tell me what you need.” Simon’s fingers curl, making him gag before drawing out. It makes him whimper, and he attempts to grind into the other man’s belly until a firm hand reaches to still his hips, keeping him in place.
“Tell me and I’ll give it to you.”
“Simon- fuck- need to come. Need ye to touch me, or let me do it, jus’ need anything-“ His rambling is swiftly cut off by a groan when he feels Simon’s hand, still wet with his spit, close around him. He strokes Soap, finally, finally giving him the fast, hard stimulation that had his eyes rolling back, and if heaven doesn’t feel half as good as this, he doesn’t want it. That’s when Simon shifts, and fucks right into his prostate.
Soap shouts. The world goes white as he tips over the edge, head thrown back as the tension in his body finally snaps, pleasure almost unbearable as he spills into Simon’s hand and his own chest.
When he comes down from his high, Simon is thrusting into his ass like an animal. Shaky low gasps escape his lips as he holds up his thigh hard enough to bruise. It’s too much, how the sweet spot inside him is being relentlessly rubbed into, and his overstimulated body can barely deal with the stretch now as Simon’s cock keeps him split open.
Soap doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels the man above him slow down to look at him.
“Want to stop?” There’s concern swimming in his eyes. Concern and something else.
“No.” It’s so much. But he wants this so badly.
Simon curses. And then slams himself back in.
The way he fucks now is sloppy, unmeasured and lacking any of the structure there previously was, short damp curls sticking to his forehead and eyes never leaving his face, even when they unfocus with pleasure.
Soap feels half incoherent and he sobs, choking out gasps, the tears running hot tracks that disappear into his hairline as he holds on to the other man for dear life.
Simon lowers himself down, and traces them with his lips between groans, before going up, up, until he's kissing the corners of his eyes before licking up the tear streaks. It was claiming, possessive, and everything was getting a little blurry when Simon started tensing up above him. He hears his name. The plea he let out in response between sobs was a jumbled mess of inside, I want it inside, and Simon, please.
Simon chokes out a moan, and with a final thrust he’s coming too, face hidden away and tucked into the crook of Soap’s neck and trembling like a leaf.
“That’s it, mo leannan, yes.” He holds him through it, nails running through his back as Simon keeps himself buried to the hilt, cock twitching and marking his insides as deep as he can go.
Their breathing steadily slows down and turns into something more manageable. Simon slumps against him, turning his head so his lips brush against the shell of Soap’s ear.
“Are you alright?” His voice is hoarse.
“Perfect.”
He runs his fingers through the dark blond strands of hair. Although soft, it still makes him grimace when the man pulls out, leaving him to clench around nothing, come leaking out between his legs and into the sheets. Simon caresses his abused, overstretched rim in small circles, soothing. The glide is slick with the warm spend. Simon’s. Soap closes his eyes and lets out a sigh, all quiet pleasure and relief.
“Mo leannan. What’s it mean?”
Soap whispers back against his temple.
“It means yer a heavy fuck. Yer crushin’ me.” Simon huffs. He does reluctantly get off of him, though.
It keeps being unusually tender, as Simon helps him lift his hips to tug the blanket off the bed and uses it to clean both of them up. The touch of the fabric is soft, wiping his belly, getting rid of the wet mess between his legs before being bundled into a ball and thrown in the direction of their backpacks.
Doing the grabby hands had never worked before, but right here and now, Simon is dropping back into the mattress and letting him maneuver them, so he’s resting his head on Simon’s chest. Guess it shows you should never stop trying. It’s a wonderful, dangerous feeling, the one that settles in the too small bed with them. The one that expands with their quiet chatter, when he bites at Simon’s nipple and gets his forehead flicked for it.
It’s a bump in the road. It’s a rustle in the silence, a tangle in the wire. And it probably won’t end well.
Soap closes his eyes, and promises himself to not fall asleep. He tries not to think about how much he wants this. Just holds Simon a little bit tighter, for a little while longer.