Work Text:
“You got me hypnotized
I'm feeling so obsessed with you
You left me paralyzed
And now I'm stuck…”
“Paralyzed,” Mystery Skulls
-1-
Ghost is accustomed to working alone. But once the job is done, it rarely happens that he gets to live alone. Like the hundreds of other soldiers in the Al Mazrah region, he’s stationed at the NATO coalition base outside of the city, crowded among the other soldiers. He lives day in and day out with them - training, working, ignoring the looks and the whispers.
It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before.
And it can’t be helped. He’s been here since the strike on Ghorbrani, and there are some loose ends that need tying up. Some things that don’t add up right. For the foreseeable future, he’ll be running solo missions for Shepherd, Laswell, and the 141, one after the other. The intel gathering won’t be completed for another few weeks at least. That’s another few weeks of being stared at and given a wide berth. Of having to put on the persona of The Ghost just as much as the mask. It gets exhausting quickly.
He’s given quarters in the officer’s barracks, at least, so he has moments of reprieve in his own shoebox of a bunk. And when that’s not enough, he takes off the mask, puts on his nondescript BDU, and slips out of the barracks. Having the mask off makes his skin crawl, exposed and vulnerable, but at least it lets him walk around the base without being watched. No one looks twice at a tall blond man in everyday uniform. He rarely has to speak to anyone, and when he does, he flattens out his accent to keep from being recognized. Oddly enough, it’s just as isolating as the mask is, despite the discomfort. He finds that he craves it sometimes, especially after a mission, when he’s pent up and all he wants to do is go for a fucking run in peace.
Tonight is much the same, except he knows from the start that getting fresh air or going for a run is going to be pointless. His skin is buzzing in the evening heat of Al Mazrah. His mind turns itself in circles; replaying his last mission, visualizing his next one.
He’s got a team to consider now too– that’s a whole other set of thoughts that keep him up. Not just Garrick and Price; his work with them has been primarily remote up to this point. There’s also the issue of the new operator. The mysterious sergeant that Price says is going to partner with him in the field. The one who’s overdue to arrive in Al Mazrah.
Yeah, that’s a whole other mess Ghost doesn’t want to think about.
Ghost is so busy not thinking about it that he doesn’t register the sounds until he’s too close.
“Fuck–!”
The cry is sharply cut off, but it still freezes Ghost in his tracks. Without paying attention, he’s walked into the warehouse section of the base. At this time in the evening, there’s usually no one around this far back. Except there clearly is, and as Ghost listens, the curse is quickly followed by another cry, breathy and wordless.
Someone’s getting fucked in one of the supply buildings.
Ghost forces down a laugh. It’s not unusual for soldiers to sneak away to fuck in secret. Or, “secret.” Privacy is all but a myth when on base. It’s not the first time Ghost has stumbled across someone fucking in some empty corner while on active duty. Hell, it’s not even the sixth time.
They’re going to need to wrap it up before the base locks down for the night and the patrol comes by, though.
Ghost intends to ignore it. He does.
It’s by accident that he turns down the alley between two buildings, and the noise only gets louder. Closer. He can hear that it’s a man now, a man who’s getting thoroughly railed and enjoying every second of it.
“Ah… u-unghfuck–”
Good for him, he thinks, ignoring the flush of heat in his belly.
Except it’s not just one voice that answers the man’s moan. It’s at least three. A distant laugh, an answering groan, and a frantic hiss. And then, clearly from the alley to Ghost’s right: “Fuck, he’s loud. Shut him up! Slut’s going to get us caught by the fucking MPs.”
The next sound is muffled, sharper. Just close enough to protesting that Ghost forgets all about ignoring the situation and picks up his pace.
Around the back of one of the warehouses, a door is propped open. Not even cracked. It’s propped half-open without even a single attempt at subtlety. Ghost reaches the door in a few easy strides, slotting himself against the doorframe to peek inside. They’re in perfect line of sight from the door - it’s like they want to be caught. Five people in the room. Two right in Ghost’s eye line, three off to one side. Past that, his tactical thought processes fizzle out.
There’s a soldier thrown over a supply box on his back, not a scrap of clothing on him. Someone’s put the jacket of their fatigues down underneath him. His long, muscular legs are tied open, calves belted to his thighs. And someone has used the box straps to bind his arms down on either side of the supply crate. Blindfolded and tied up like a present, miles of bare skin on display, muscles bunching against the restraints. There’s a faded tattoo on his forearm and his body littered with scars, not unusual. His hair is styled into a mohawk, but that’s not an unusual choice for soldiers either. There’s nothing identifiable about him, no dog tags around his throat.
He could be anyone. He’s been stripped bare, made into no one.
The man between his legs - shirt off and his uniform pants slung low and loose around his hips, an old, deep scar over his ribs - has reached over to slap a hand over the soldier’s mouth. Ghost has a moment to take in the bound man’s expression. The pinch of his brow beneath the blindfold is less pleasure and more irritation, but not distress.
“Hey! I fucking told you,” scolds one of the others, before Ghost can decide if he needs to act. He’s American, standard build for a soldier, and he’s the only one in the group who’s fully clothed and put together. He’s standing up to a full, commanding height, but doesn’t take a step forward. “No covering his mouth while his hands are tied. If you can’t follow the fucking rules, you’re out.”
Ghost lets out the breath he’d been holding.
To prove his point, the bound soldier tosses his head, dislodging the hand. His lips are bitten red and slick, shining in the shitty overhead light of the warehouse as his head tips back. Ghost is so busy watching, staring at the perfect arch of his throat, that he almost misses Scar cursing, “Shit! Sorry, right. Fuck.” The last hiss is punctuated by a snap of his hips, hard enough that the soldier jolts helplessly in his bindings. He moans, low and loud, quickly choking on the next sound as the one fucking him picks up a rough rhythm. “Little cockslut is just too damn loud.”
But he doesn’t try to muffle the other man’s noises this time. It only seems to make him fuck the - Submissive? Slut? - harder, brutal thrusts that send him arching, back bowing into a mind-bending curve. A string of reedy moans leaves his mouth. “Ye-eah, fuck… fuck!”
Scar grits his teeth, a hand coming down on his bound thigh in a short, vicious slap. The sound alone is enough to make Ghost lean further into the doorframe. The ecstatic moan the slut makes at the hit nearly has him salivating.
That should be all, and Ghost should leave. He’s seen more than enough to assure himself that this is consensual. Eagerly consensual, at that. This man is being used like he’s nothing but a toy, his neglected prick red and pitiful where it drools on his stomach, and he’s clearly enjoying every moment of it.
But his dick has other ideas. Fuck, he’s so wound up that he’s already straining in his pants. Ghost reaches down, trying to relieve some of the unbearable pressure, and gives in. He stays. He stands in the alley, in full view of anyone that could walk by, and watches.
“We’re going to get caught if it keeps up like this,” says one of the other soldiers - English, this one, face and shoulders covered in freckles. The other is blatantly ignoring the no-smoking sign and has a cig between his lips. Ghost hasn’t been paying attention to them until now. They’re both partially undressed, sweat shining on their faces. Had they already had their turns… or more than one turn?
The American pulls his eyes away from the fucking pair for a brief moment. He grins at Freckles. “That’s part of the fun for him.”
“Fuck. Seriously?”
“Uh-huh. He’d love it.”
A sharp groan pulls Ghost’s eyes away. Scar has gripped the slut by the thighs, his thrusts gone short and fast, uneven as the pair of them gasp. The slut squirms, trying to grind down on the man’s cock, seeking the pleasure that Scar doesn’t care to give him. Ghost can’t stop looking at the man’s hands digging into the slut’s muscular thighs, leaving red marks that will surely become bruises. Something hot and ugly stirs in his chest.
He wants to leave marks too.
Scar cums after only a few more thrusts, rutting into the trembling body beneath him, groaning out his orgasm in choked breaths. There’s no fuzzy afterglow here, no basking in the pleasure. Scar pulls out with a slick noise, smacking playfully at the pretty slut’s thigh when the man writhes in response. “Y’found us a nice fucktoy this time, Sarg,” he laughs. The American chucks a towel at his face, earning a squawk. “Shit, Sarg, fucking disgusting! It has everyone’s spunk all over it, filthy fucking animals.”
“And where did you just have your dick, genius? Clean up and put your dick away unless you’re going for another round.”
The American approaches as everyone laughs and argues playfully. The man tied to the supply crate goes ignored. They talk over his head as if he isn’t even there, calling him fucktoy and cocksleeve and treating him like a thing rather than a person.
“I can’t believe we’re letting a slut like this get away from us,” someone says.
“It’ll take forever to find a cocksleeve this easy again,” says another.
“Better enjoy it while we can. Who wants a turn next?”
Ghost doesn’t pay attention to who speaks. Instead, he watches the shiver work its way down the slut’s prone body. Watches his thighs shake in denied pleasure, his hips roll in desperate little movements, trying to find friction that isn’t there.
The American finally glances down, brushing his fingers through the shorn sides and into the man’s mohawk to get his attention. It breaks the spell, just a little. The slut leans his head back to greet him as the other bends to speak. It’s easy, casual. Familiar. Trusting. He’s not close enough to hear what the sergeant says to him. But the submissive nods, and gets a playful ruffle of his hair in response. That sick, squirming feeling is back in Ghost’s stomach again.
“--Nah, I’m outta here. Thanks for the free round, though, Sarg.”
Shit.
He’s been so busy watching the pair of them that he didn’t even notice Scar had finished dressing, already walking towards the door while pulling his shirt back on. Ghost has barely a few seconds to backpedal away from the doorway, not nearly enough time to make a quick or quiet escape. Or make it look natural and not like he’s a peeping fucking tom. Ghost can do nothing but stand there and accept his fate as the door opens.
Scar freezes in the doorway at the sight of him. For a single, hysterical moment, Ghost is actually relieved he’s not wearing his mask or his gear. It’s bad enough that he’s taller and broader and a hell of a lot scarier than the other soldier. Scar makes a few feeble attempts to say something, but ends up gaping at him like a landed fish. The silence is deafening, not just in the alley, but in the warehouse as well. Ghost can see the American sergeant watching. Even the slut has picked up on the sudden tension, starting to crane his head up curiously.
“Alvarez,” the sergeant says, his eyes trained on Ghost, “take off, I got this.” Scar does as he’s told without protest, shouldering past Ghost and scurrying off down the alley. Leaving him to stand in the doorway. Without his mask, there’s nothing but his training to help hide his expression. And fuck, he doesn’t even want to know what he looks like, big, scarred fucker like him looming in the alley with his cock tenting his trousers.
He honestly expects to be told to fuck off. But the American doesn’t go that route. He keeps studying Ghost for another moment, before his eyes flicker down to his companion, still tied to the crate. “We’ve got a guest. Think he wants a turn?”
Click!
The sound rings through the silent warehouse and Ghost’s hands flinch at his sides. It takes him an embarrassingly long time - several seconds - to figure out where the noise is coming from. It’s a clicker, shoved into one of the slut’s hands.
Click!
The sound is almost desperate this time, so excited by the idea that he’s forgotten his mouth is free. The American smirks, but Ghost barely pays attention to him. “Yeah, yes, come on,” the slut rasps. His voice is rough from his moans and cries. But the words are clear enough that he can hear his Scottish accent now. A shiver works down Ghost’s spine. He wants to wreck that voice.
The American raises a brow at him, silently questioning. You heard him, that looks says.
Ghost nods and steps into the warehouse, firmly closing the door behind him this time. No interruptions. The American grins at that and pats the slut on his shoulder. “Alright, fucktoy, looks like you’ve got another dick to take. Ain’t that nice?”
The man trembles, all anticipation and delight, his answer a barely coherent stream of, “Yeah, do it, give it t’me.” Not pleading, but demanding. Bossy.
Ghost wonders if he can make him beg.
“Just in case you weren’t outside when we laid down the rules…” the American starts with a teasing smile. “He’s got the clicker for emergencies - once for yes, three times fast for no - but still don’t gag him unless he’s got a hand free. Stoplight system, he calls red or yellow, you step back. Pain is okay, but keep it to scratching and slapping. No bodily fluids except your cum. You up-to-date on your medical shit, soldier?”
He finally finds his voice and barely remembers to stifle his accent. “Yeah, was in the last round.”
“Then you’re good. Questions?”
The slut lets loose a string of inventive curses that ends with, “Hurry th’fuck up, fuck me!”
God, Ghost is going to ruin him.
“Choking, green?”
The answering moan from the crate should be enough, but the American nods anyway. “All clear.” He gives the slut a teasing pat on the cheek before stepping away, going back over to Freckles and Smoker to watch. Leaving Ghost to do what he likes. They fade from his awareness quickly - not smart, soldier - and all he can see is the pretty thing tied up in front of him.
Ghost steps closer, stops just a few paces from the crate and just looks. He gets to take it all in, the debauched filth of him spread out like a feast. Gets to watch the man squirm in his restraints, trying to crane his head around to pinpoint where Ghost is standing. Ghost lets his eyes linger on him as he likes, stares down at his drooling, neglected cock and the absolute mess between his thighs. Cum and lube, some of it mixing with the dripping precum across his hips where someone pulled out and came across his stomach. He pictures, for a long moment, just pushing the slut’s thighs up to his chest and looking at his dripping hole - maybe asking him how many cocks he’s taken so far, how many loads they’ve pumped into him.
But no. There are other things Ghost wants more than that.
The man’s chest heaves, his gasps loud in the room. His lips, bitten red, are parted, his tongue darting out to wet them as the silence stretches longer. And Ghost can’t take his eyes off them.
He could honestly stay like this, despite the insistent ache of his cock in his trousers. There’s a special kind of thrill in watching the slut try to work out where Ghost is, in watching the anticipation build. It’s just as useful here as it is in interrogation; he knows exactly how effective a well-placed silence can be.
The thought, as dark as it is, only makes him harder.
The slut has started to shake again, a tremor working up his bound limbs, but there’s something less pleased about it now. Just under the blindfold, his brows furrow. The silence has gone just a touch too long, Ghost realizes. And he wants the man on edge, but not uncertain. A sound rumbles from his chest, a nonsensical hum that’s both thoughtful and dismissive all at once. Ghost reaches out a hand, just to slide the tips of his fingers along the taut muscle of the slut’s thigh. And just like that, the hesitation on his face is wiped clean and he’s desperate and wanting again. The muscle jumps under Ghost’s touch, legs parting just a fraction wider. Needy, he wants to tsk. Ghost watches, fighting back a mean little smile, as he trails his fingers higher, following the slick line of the slut’s inner thigh… and bypasses his needy little cock completely, sliding his touch up over his hip instead.
The sound that punches out of the man’s chest is nothing short of delicious, and Ghost hasn’t even really touched him yet. “No, fuck, y’bastard–” But he snaps his mouth shut when Ghost withdraws his touch entirely. “Nonono, I’m sorry– fuck!”
Better. Ghost rewards him, soothes his brief struggle by pressing a hand flat to the slut’s chest, pressing down with enough of his strength to still him against the crate. The rapid thumpthumpthump of his heart pulses against Ghost’s hand.
“You actually going to fuck him, or are you just going to stand there and feel him up until the MPs find us?” Freckles calls from his spot with the others. The noise startles them both, so focused that even slut seems to have forgotten that they aren’t alone in the warehouse with the way he jumps under Ghost’s hand. Ghost lifts his head, his scowl tugging at the scar near his mouth.
Unmasked, the look on his face must be venomous because the little prick shuts his mouth quickly.
The American punches Freckles’ arm. “What, you suddenly want a turn again? Christ, let the new guy have a minute.”
Ghost forces down the snarl building in his chest. He’s mine, says that dark, completely irrational voice. He shoves that down as well; it’s too stupid a thought to even consider. “I don’t fuck filthy toys,” is what he says aloud, doing his best to keep his voice neutral, unrecognizable.
It has the effect he wanted it to, because the slut whines for him, pressing up into his touch at the words.
The others are quickly forgotten again.
“Noisy,” he admonishes. It’s the first words he’s said to the man directly, and that makes something squirm in his belly. Excitement and nerves. He’s not sure that he likes it. Or maybe he likes it a little too much, especially with the way the other man shivers at the sound of his voice.
He steps around the supply box, towards where his head is. The slut seems to understand what he’s doing quickly enough, because he breathes in sharply and starts to squirm, trying to get closer to the edge.
Ghost stills him with a hand across his collarbones. The span of his hand is wide against the slut’s skin, and all Ghost can think about is how his hand would look around that pretty throat.
“Come on,” he urges Ghost. And though his words are still demanding, his tone is pleading now. “Come on, I want it.”
Good, that’s closer to how Ghost wants him. He manhandles him back towards the edge of the box and the slut goes willingly, eagerly. So eagerly that Ghost gives into the temptation and twists his fingers into that silly little mohawk, pulling his head back until it’s hanging off the edge. His eyes are glued to the way the slut’s mouth falls open already, begging soundlessly. He stares at him for a beat, loving the way the man’s cock twitches and drools against his stomach under Ghost’s stare.
Ghost keeps him there, holds him in place with a hand in his hair as he leans around the side of the crate to untie one of his hands. He’s still holding the clicker in his other hand, which Ghost knows should be enough of a stopping signal, but he guides the man’s free hand up to his hip anyway. He taps twice on the back of it, slow and meaningful, does it again until the man copies him.
He’s about to ask… something - if he understands? If he’s alright with this? But then the man is tipping his head back further, still held in Ghost’s grip, purring and opening his mouth wider. And the brief moment of hesitation evaporates. Little whore.
Maybe his hand shakes as he hastily unbuttons his trousers. If the man can feel Ghost’s fingers trembling against his scalp, he doesn’t react to it at all. Maybe his heart rabbits in his ribcage like he’s in a firefight because he’s so fucking wound up and he can’t believe that his post-mission run has turned into this. Maybe he’s so worked up that he can’t even take it slow, just pulls his prick out of his fatigues and pushes into that waiting mouth. Any thought of teasing is gone, and all that’s left is that hot, sinful mouth around his cock.
All of the breath hisses out from between his teeth, sparks dancing up his spine. Finally. Despite Ghost’s best efforts to stay in control, his hips jerk, sinking in another inch without warning. But the slut only squeezes a hand at his hip, taking him so easily with a desperate little sound that hums against Ghost’s skin that startles a little, “Fuck!” out of him.
Even without Ghost pushing deeper than a few inches, the man is hungry for it. He strains against Ghost’s grip in his hair, not pulling away, but towards him. His mouth works around him in short, gentle sucks, trying to bob his head despite Ghost’s hold.
Desperate, hungry little slut, still trying to take control. Still trying to fuck himself on a cock, one way or another. Fire sparks in Ghost’s belly, irritation and arousal all at once. The way the slut whines around him as he pulls out of his mouth doesn’t help at all. Ghost lets go of him, taking a moment to treasure the already fucked out look on his face before delivering a swift, reproachful smack to his cheek. Firm, stinging, enough to make the slut flinch against the crate.
The hiccup of a gasp and the way he shudders after, though, says exactly how much he enjoyed it.
Ghost doesn’t speak, but the snarl in his chest says more than enough. Stay still. He threads his fingers tighter into the slut’s hair, roughly repositioning his head where he wants it so Ghost can fuck back into his mouth at his own pace. There’s no resistance as he rolls his hips, savoring the wet heat, pressing a little deeper with each thrust. The man’s chest rises in a trembling inhale, working to breathe shallowly in time with Ghost’s movements. Quick breaths - in, out, in– pause, out.
He lets go of his hair, presses his fingers into the hinge of his jaw instead. A momentary kindness, a wordless reminder as he thrusts deeper, just past the back of his mouth. Half a breath, and he’s in his throat.
The slut - pretty whore, this sinful fucking man - barely gags at all.
Perfect. That’s it, good little slut. Take it. Take it. The words of praise claw up his throat. He has to grit his teeth to keep them in.
But it’s not enough just to fuck into his throat, no. Ghost wants him to choke. He keeps a hand firm on his jaw, keeping him steady as he thrusts gradually into that perfect heat in dirty rolls of his hips. He keeps pushing until he can feel the slut spasm around him, swallowing thickly to keep his gag reflex under control. Ghost doesn’t bother being gentle about it. Doesn’t want to be, either.
The hand at his hip clenches, but doesn’t move.
When Ghost pulls out of his mouth, the slut lets out a wet gasp. “Fuck me, y’re a big bastard, aren’cha?” There’s a laugh in his voice.
Too coherent for Ghost’s liking. His hand comes down in another slap - lighter, almost playful this time.
“Hah– y’wanna shut me up so much–” He doesn’t get a chance to finish, because Ghost digs a hand into the scar on the man’s chin, forcing his mouth open, and guides his cock back inside. This time he doesn’t stop, bottoming out in short thrusts until the slut’s chin presses into his pelvis.
He holds there for a moment before pulling back again, relishing the thick, wet sound of his cock leaving the slut’s throat and the way he swallows around his cock.
“Yeah,” the slut pants, voice rough but still too clear-headed for Ghost’s satisfaction, “yeah, give it to me. More. Again.” He even opens his mouth, tongue out and welcoming for him, the fucking tease.
So Ghost does. In again, holds himself as far down the man’s throat as he can, until he starts to choke and writhe on his dick. And then stays for another beat longer.
This time when he pulls out, the slut coughs, drool glistening on his lips. It takes him a second to get his breathing under control, and even then all he manages to let out is a strained, trembling, “F-hah-Fuuckk…” that trails off into a whimper.
Ghost smirks. The next time he slides his cock down the sweet clutch of his throat, he sits there and savors it. Grinds his cock into that hot mouth, tips his head back with a voiceless groan. And lets the slut choke on him until his chest convulses and he arches off the crate.
Two quick taps at his hip and Ghost steps back, trying and mostly failing to pull out smoothly. His cock, shiny and slick with precum and thick saliva, bobs close to the slut’s face, the tip leaving a trail along the corner of his mouth, smearing slick and saliva on his cheek. Ghost is kind enough to support his head while he gasps for air, but not kind enough to feel sorry about the sputtering coughs and his flushed, drool-slicked face.
And also just enough of an asshole to coo wordlessly down at him.
There’s no snappy comeback now, or even a demand for more. The slut gasps and shakes in his bindings. After a few moments more, where Ghost stays as he is, the slut finally seems to understand.
“Please,” he rasps between panting breaths.
“Mm. Good.” Ghost can’t help but rumble down at him. It’s worth it though, for the way the slut shudders and all but melts against the crate. Oh, he thinks, as he takes himself in hand and caresses the tip against that swollen, slick mouth. Oh, you’re sweet, too. That line of thinking is dangerous. Because if Ghost starts down that route, he’s going to start wondering what it would be like to keep him.
Especially with the way those pliant lips look around the head of his cock, the way they part when he fucks back into that slick, tight heat.
The slut’s blissed now, it’s evident in the way he all but melts, happy to let Ghost do what he wants with him, fuck his mouth, his throat, how he likes. It’s a struggle to keep his thrusts fluid, a battle not to just rut into his mouth with how sweet he is. The muffled whimpers and gags around his prick are addicting, and Ghost thinks just how much he’d like to keep the slut on his cock forever. He lets the man’s head hang there, instead putting a hand around his throat to feel the way it works around him, feel him choking and moaning from the outside as well.
Every few thrusts, the hand at his hip clenches, and it’s all Ghost can do to keep track. There’s a sick thrill in counting just how long he can keep the slut stuffed full before he starts to struggle. He doesn’t push the man to his limits again, as much as he would like to. So he keeps focus and counts the seconds - and lets the beautiful little whore suck in a desperate breath before he has to tap out. The hot little puffs of air against the base of his shaft, his sac, and his thighs make that dark, twisting thing purr in his chest.
There’s something fucked up about him, taking this much pleasure in being the only reason this man breathes. But Ghost already knew that much about himself.
That’s alright, though, because the slut is into it too. From his vantage, Ghost can watch those bound, muscular thighs tremble, watch his prick leak against his flexing stomach without even a touch of relief. And the sounds he makes around Ghost’s dick.
“Mm… mnnghk– nnh!” Smothered keens and nasty little chokes, and when Ghost does pull back to give him a full breath, the slut takes advantage with a wrecked, “Ahn-yeah–”
Fucking perfect cocksleeve, using his chance at breath to beg for more.
Molten pleasure spikes in Ghost’s belly as he steps back, just to look at him now. His face is flushed a deep pink, a fucking mess of drool and precum. The blindfold is soaked through, and Ghost aches, wondering if it’s from the drool sliding down his face or if he’s made the pretty slut cry on his cock. He has to stroke himself, the sound of his hand on his soaked dick just as loud as the slut’s whines.
“Please, please, f-fuck, hah–” The slut gives a hiccuping gasp as Ghost taps his prick against his reddened mouth. He squirms closer, seeking Ghost with his mouth, all but sticking his tongue out to get a taste of him. “Hhan– give–”
Ghost presses back inside and revels in the full-chested moan that vibrates against his cock and all the way up his spine.
(He thinks he hears a hiss from somewhere to his right. A whispered, “Holy fucking Christ,” from their nearly forgotten audience. Ghost has to clench his teeth to stop from growling at them like a beast. Because fuck them, the slut is his right now.)
It’s too much, and at the same time, Ghost wonders if it will ever be enough. But the pleasure draws tight in his belly again, more intense now, a hot spark that threatens to end this all too soon.
The thought of an oncoming orgasm has never been quite so disappointing.
He slows his pace to stave off the inevitable, determined to make the slut writhe and cry around his cock more before the end. The questioning, almost dissatisfied noise the man makes should not be as sexy as it is. Ghost adjusts his stance, willing his legs not to shake with the razor’s edge of thrill and arousal and pulling back so that his cock sits comfortably in the slut’s mouth instead. Almost immediately, the man sets to work straining against Ghost’s hold on his throat, his tongue adding delicious pressure as it strokes over the length of him. Minx, Ghost thinks accusingly, his eyes fluttering closed.
Fuck, two can play at that game.
A sharp tweak to one of his nipples makes the slut all but squeak around him. Ghost doesn’t linger there, as much as the thought of a long, torturous nipple play session appeals to him. He reaches further instead, scraping his nails along the tight planes of his stomach just to feel the muscles jump under his touch. But nothing can top the instant the slut forgets to breathe when Ghost’s hand closes around his cock.
His entire body curls, jolting so hard he nearly bucks off the crate. The belts and straps holding him down rattle dangerously. And all the breath leaves him in a desperate, muffled, “Mmph!” with his mouth stuffed full of Ghost’s cock. Obscene. Filthy. Wonderful. A few slow, easy strokes is all it takes to get him bucking into his hand, muscles taut in his thighs and stomach, fighting to get the leverage to fuck into Ghost’s grip. His strokes speed up, just a little. Just enough that the telltale tremor starts, until the slut starts making punched-out little noises around his dick that get more desperate with each one. “Mmn– nn! Nnggh!” A delicious shiver works up Ghost’s spine at the sound of him, at the vibration of his little whines.
A gentle squeeze to the slut’s pretty throat and Ghost pulls out of his mouth just to hear the start of the next sound. He doesn’t even mourn the loss of that searing mouth around him. And then Ghost stops stroking him and the slut thrashes and sobs.
Ghost watches as that messy, abused mouth forms pleas and curses, but all that comes out is something wordless and needy.
Fuck it’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.
Ghost is going to be thinking about this moment for a long time afterward, seeing it every time he closes his eyes. He wonders what it would be like to keep doing this. To edge the slut until he’s crying for release, fucked out without a cock even in him and hanging on Ghost’s every touch, every whim. This, Ghost thinks deliriously, is what obsession feels like.
“Bleeding Christ, I can’t wait any longer when he sounds like that. I’m taking another fucking turn, newbie has had him to himself long enough!”
It’s like ice water poured down Ghost’s spine. Freckles - the little cunt - steps up between the slut’s spread thighs, his hand already undoing his waistband and his eyes roving hungrily over the man. Fully intent on putting it in like he owns him. Like Ghost isn’t even there. Like he has any right.
Ghost doesn’t quite see red, but it’s a close thing. He doesn’t even hear the sound - the snarl - that comes out of his mouth. He isn’t even sure if there are words involved, if he hurls curses at the little tosser or just barks a sharp warning that’s lost in an angry growl. He just knows that he raises his voice, the hand on the slut’s throat coming down to plant itself over his chest, like a beast guarding a meal. He has a second to savor the utter fear on Freckles' weasely little face as he backpedals sharply.
And quickly forgets all about him, because the slut gives a little gasp at Ghost’s raised voice, and cums with a sharp arch and barely even a sound. Shakes and spurts across his stomach, all without even Ghost’s hand on his cock. At the sound of his voice.
It feels like no one moves. Hell, Ghost isn’t even sure he breathes in the moments after. Instead he watches, fucking mesmerized, as the slut shivers and bucks in the last crest of orgasm. Watches the tremor start from his thighs and travel up. Watches his chest rise and fall with shaky breaths that end on a low, guttural groan from that sinfully slick mouth. “Nnghfuuuck….”
Ghost is so goddamn turned on that his head spins. Fuck. Fuck. Not even the quiet, “Christ, Sarg, you didn’t tell me he could cum hands-free like that,” from someone can kill the giddy high. He reaches down to stroke himself, eyes on the slut’s filthy, fucked out face. The sound of his hand on his soaking cock is dirty and loud in his own ears. But the slut perks immediately at the noise, craning his head back over the edge of the crate, sluggishly dragging his pleasure-drunk body closer. Fuck, he’s hungry for it, he’s perfect.
“Please,” he begs, voice hitching around his gasps as Ghost’s hand speeds up. “Please, cum…”
Ghost couldn’t resist that even if he wanted to. Not when the slut tries so hard to hold his mouth open for him, between pleas and gasps, sloppy and cumdrunk. Pleasure coils tight, a wave that comes too fast to enjoy it. Too fast to savor the burn as he cums over the slut’s face. The moment his orgasm fades into syrupy afterglow is more of a relief than anything else. The jittery buzz that’s been lurking under his skin since the end of the last mission finally gets drowned out.
It’s a release, sure, but somehow Ghost can’t shake the dissatisfaction the moment the afterglow takes hold.
He reaches down with his clean hand and cups the back of the man’s head where it’s starting to sag over the side of the crate. Ghost can’t help but let his fingers dig into the sweaty shorn hair, faintly scratching his blunt nails at his scalp. And is enthralled by the way the man all leans into the touch. The hand that had been holding his hip in an orgasm-slack grip finally falls away. Now draped lazily across the box, the slut looks absolutely decadent. He looks ready to start purring like a well-fed feline. Ghost’s eyes track down his sprawled body, flushed and slick with sweat and cum. Red marks that will be bruises on his hips and thighs. A deep red flush across one cheek where he’d slapped him, now hidden behind an orgasmic blush and a mess of Ghost’s cum. An already fading red mark from Ghost’s hand at his throat - it’ll be gone in the next hour and he can’t help the rush of disappointment at the thought.
The freckled soldier starts forward again with a soft curse, muttering something about taking another turn that Ghost can’t give a fuck about, other than the twist of displeasure in his chest, the kneejerk territorial urge to shove him away.
Clickclickclick!
Three clicks and it’s over. All stop.
The American is up from his casual leaning on the sidelines even before Freckles stops moving. “Alright, that’s it. We’re done!”
Smoker sighs and grabs for his shirt, stubbing his cigarette out on a nearby crate. Freckles is less happy about it, groaning in frustration. He steps back all the same, though. “Fucking hell, I just needed one more turn after that show!”
“And you can go get your dick wet somewhere else. Or use your damn hand. I don’t give a fuck.” There’s no further protesting, though there’s a lot of irritated huffs as the two soldiers right their BDUs and head for the door. “Thanks for the party, Sarg,” Smoker rumbles on the way out, roughly shoving Freckles between the shoulders.
Just like that, Ghost is the only one left. He doesn’t move from where he stands, holding the man’s head up like a complete tosser with his dick out. He must look ridiculous and can’t gather the fucks to care. The American, at least, does nothing more than shoot him a look as he approaches. He sets a hand on the man’s shoulder with a soft, “Hey. You solid?” It’s affectionate, but not particularly intimate. Maybe they aren’t as involved as Ghost assumed.
The slut murmurs something garbled. It sounds close enough to, “Copy,” that the American laughs.
“Okay, man. Hang tight while I get you untied.” The American nods to Ghost briefly before setting to work on the ties holding the man’s legs.
Ghost stays where he is, feeling simultaneously like an outsider and like he never wants to move. He holds the man’s head up as the American unties one leg and carefully stretches out the - doubtlessly - stiff muscles before starting on the other leg. The man gives a hazy little whine below him, shifting in Ghost’s grip.
Easy, he almost says, the words burning on the tip of his tongue. Lie still for me. Just breathe through it. He wants to say them. Wants to coax him through the come down and watch him go boneless.
A shaky hand starts to lift, the man pawing clumsily at his blindfold. All at once Ghost heart leaps into his throat like he’s been flanked out on the field. His reaches to stop him, pressing a hand over the blindfold as the man tries to push it off. “No,” he orders.
There’s a pause, and then the other drops his hand away from his face. “Y’ssir…” the man replies, his voice floaty from the endorphin high he’s no doubt experiencing right now. Ghost’s stomach, entirely against his better judgment, does a giddy little flip.
Fuck, this is dangerous.
He stays where he is while the American unties the rest of the bindings. With a cheeky smile, the sergeant gets his hands up under the slut’s thighs and pulls him back onto the crate. Ghost cups both hands under his neck to make sure he doesn’t knock himself silly against the edge. And then… he has no reason to keep touching him. He lets go. Tucks himself back into his pants like he isn’t internally screaming at himself for still hanging around like a forlorn puppy.
“Y’alright there?” the American is asking his friend. He’s also pulling what looks to be wet wipes out of his pocket.
The slut laughs, a sharp, pitchy thing. Voice absolutely wrecked, just like Ghost had wanted. “Aye. M’fucked out, mate…”
Ghost steps away with the barest of nods at the American. And absolutely does not escape from the warehouse with his tail between his legs. He’s long overstayed his welcome anyway.
-2-
Ghost doesn’t think about the man after that. He doesn’t. He doesn’t dwell on the memory of a stranger tied down to a crate in a random supply building, happily fucked out of his mind and begging for more. And Ghost certainly doesn’t spend the next several days cumming to the memory of the sounds he made while choking so prettily on his cock.
He does not, because that way lies madness.
(He hasn’t cum this many times in a week since he was a teenager first discovering what his dick was for.)
Ghost very carefully doesn’t think about that man, because if he doesn’t, his eyes roving over every soldier that he passes on the base doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean that he’s hoping to see that stupid mohawk in the mess tent or see him training with a squad out in the sand. Because that would be pathetic.
Not that it matters. He never finds the man he had called slut, whore, fucktoy on base. And life goes on.
A lot of military active duty is a waiting game. Ghost wakes, trains, sleeps, ignores the stares from other soldiers, makes his reports, has regular briefings with his Captain. The list is endless and monotonous. A week between missions turns to three and then more. Price visits, briefly, to bring him up to speed on the Al-Qatala intel that he and Laswell have managed to scare up. Ghorbrani has been replaced by one of his subordinates, it seems. One Hassan Zyani, who is just as calculating as his predecessor but twice as unhinged and unafraid to do things… unconventionally. He’s a bomb that isn’t waiting to go off and they don’t have the luxury of waiting him out.
“Was hoping to introduce you to your partner while I was here,” Price muses as their briefing ends. “But it seems Sergeant MacTavish accepted a mission with the 21st. He’ll be halfway across the desert by now.”
Sergeant MacTavish, it seems, is just as much of a workaholic as Ghost is. He sees nothing of his mysterious partner while planning and scouting for the mission to apprehend Hassan. It’s thanks to MacTavish’s intel gathering, through Laswell, that they even pinpoint the compound in the first place. A real man of action, his partner.
Maybe he hates the waiting game as much as Ghost does.
It’s not until the day of the mission that Ghost gets to meet the man. Literally, as he’s stepping out onto the tarmac to get in the bloody helo. The transport carrying a group of kitted out marines rolls up just as Shepherd is relaying MacTavish’s inclusion in the mission.
“Marines are loading in now, lieutenant. You and the sergeant are leading the way on this one.”
“Roger.”
Ghost eyes the soldiers filing out of the transport as he approaches, something like trepidation settling in his chest. Something other than pre-mission adrenaline. Meeting someone who’s supposed to be his equal - in Price’s eyes, for all that Ghost ranks above the sergeant - at the last minute isn’t ideal. It’s nothing that Ghost can’t handle, but it leaves a lot to chance. All he knows about Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish is his credentials, his partially buried disciplinary record, and that he has a nickname that’s just shy of ridiculous.
A soldier breaks away from the marines, who are quickly loading into the helo. He knocks his fist into the arm of a passing soldier, trading banter and sharp laughter.
Ghost falters for half a step just hearing it.
The man who can only be Soap MacTavish turns, and Ghost knows the shape of his profile even in the dark, even in full uniform. He’s entirely unsurprised by the swagger in his step as the sergeant walks towards him. And he certainly knows the shape of that crooked grin, because that mouth has been all but haunting him for weeks.
“Let’s get ourselves a win, yeah, LT?” He can do nothing but stand there, struck silent, as MacTavish smirks and punches him in the arm, singularly unafraid of Ghost’s… everything. “Save ya a seat, sir.”
He’s never been more grateful for the mask. Because he gapes openly at MacTavish’s retreating form.
Soap MacTavish, sergeant, sniper, demolitions expert, the man who begged so sweetly for Ghost to fuck his throat.
“Fucking hell.”
END.