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He liked Soap under him. Liked the flush that ruddied his olive skin from his Adam’s apple down to his navel when he was about to come.
The way he got so overwhelmed by how full he was, couldn’t quite meet Ghost’s eyes until he was encouraged, properly. “Look at me, sweetheart. There you are. Keep lookin’ at me.” How he couldn’t help crying when he tried to keep them open through the pleasure of Ghost’s cock hitting deep, when he’d stare into Ghost’s eyes with so much devotion that Ghost almost needed to look away. How much Soap trusted. Christ, he trusted Ghost so fucking much, trusted him with more than just his body when they were alone.
With his life, too. Trust so beautiful it made Ghost want to hurt him, bad, to prove he didn’t deserve it after all. Really hurt him, not the consensual way Soap begged to be hurt. “Fuck me up Simon, please,” he’d whine, bent over on Ghost’s lap, his arse already red and ruined with blood-warm welts. Pushing those swollen cheeks up for more, toward Ghost’s big, greedy, abusive hands.
“Not much of a punishment if you want it so bad, now is it?”
Ghost liked to make Soap drool from how hard he fucked, like an animal, like the only way he could show Soap what he meant. Where his heart belonged. That’s the way they were. The way things’d naturally worked out between them when they fell into bed together the first time.
And Ghost liked it. He didn’t want anything else.
Ignored it when he caught himself thinking of what it’d be like, the hot shame and even hotter want that filled him. What would being under Soap feel like? How would it taste to trust that much? To feel that much, that freely, to let Soap see.
Ghost knew Johnny wanted to, watched his eyes drift down lower when he’d get between Ghost’s thighs to suck his cock. His thumbs brushing up into sensitive areas he knew he wasn’t allowed to touch. The round of Ghost’s arse, the forbidden place beneath his sack.
Ghost could see the crude way feeling and looking at that place made Johnny’s cock twitch and leak. He wouldn’t dare ask out loud, though. Never had, not once.
Somehow, Ghost knew he understood that unspoken line, and if he could let himself really feel all the things he felt for Soap, maybe he’d feel grateful for that care. But he could only feel angry. Angry that Soap wouldn't cross lines Ghost would push just to see if he could.
Angry that Soap was a better man than him. Always would be, even if he'd go to his grave denying it.
Soap would content himself on whatever Ghost gave him, and Ghost wished he would bully. Wished he’d take. Wish he'd act like the feral dog he did when he was in the field.
Wished he’d force Ghost to take what he wanted. What he’d never ask for himself.
But he was just Ghost’s good boy.
Ghost’d never even touched himself there, not once before Soap started making him wonder. Started making him weak and desirous for things that he’d innately accepted would make him less of a man, strip him of his control and power.
Johnny wasn’t less of a man for taking his cock, was he? Still killed with his bare hands. Still ruggedly handsome, still smelled musky and filthy and like every masculine thing Simon loved.
But that was different. It was different if he bent over in submission, if he pushed his fingers inside that shameful place that clenched and ached when he’d break under the intrusive thoughts, the mental images of Soap over him, fucking him. Ghost wondered what he’d be like. If he’d take just as much care of Ghost when he had all the power.
Ghost wondered if he’d like getting fucked, if it’d feel even a fraction as good as it seemed to for Johnny, panting and groaning and cursing and messy and needy.
Maybe he’d see what his own fingers felt like once, he’d thought.
And he did, when he could lock the door of his flat so no one else would ever know. Turned the light off because he couldn’t even look at himself, at his body as he climbed into his bed after his shower, naked. Parted his legs and got right to it, practical-like.
His cock was flaccid against his thigh as he slicked up his index finger with spit, found his hole and slid it in, from tip to third knuckle all at once, without flinching, glad he couldn’t see the intimate way he was touching himself.
The intrusion was strange.
Strange and shameful and he didn’t know why the fuck he was subjecting himself to the embarrassment. But he’d give it a proper go.
Pulled out just enough to push back in, to do what he knew Soap would moan for.
He fucked slowly, just a little, just a bit more, and his cock started to pay attention, started to swell, fill, and the finger started to feel nice.
Then he found it, the place he’d aim for when he fingered Johnny, the place that made him drool.
The low sigh that filled the quiet room was forced from him, betraying him as he pressed against that spot again, hoping he wouldn’t like it again, but his hips lifted off the bed on their own, and his insides clenched, hard, around his fingers.
He thought of Soap, and he didn’t make anymore noise. Wouldn’t.
Even as he thought of his fingers as Soap’s, those work-rough, skilled fingers fucking him instead, getting him ready the way Ghost got him ready. But more careful, more loving than Ghost’s efficient, impatient touch.
Thought of Soap saying his name while he worked his ass open, and came so hard, tried so hard not to cry out that his lungs burned and he couldn’t breathe, choked and coughed and made a mess of his belly and his sheets.
He felt fucking sick and guilty and warm and sated and good.
Maybe it’d felt fucking good. Maybe he couldn’t stop thinking about it after that night, got desperate, couldn’t wait until he was on leave again. Fucked himself on base, alone after he fucked Soap, thinking of that pretty, hard cock bouncing on his boy’s stomach with every one of Ghost’s thrusts.
Soap would fill him better than his fingers could, get to that spot nice and good. Maybe Ghost grit his teeth and let out a frustrated, animal noise when he couldn’t. Fucking. Stop.
Maybe he was close to asking. Maybe he’d order Soap to do it. Order him inside.
Maybe.
Maybe one day he would.