Chapter 4
They'd made it through another long op. Barely.
Dust still clung to their skin, blood in the cracks of their knuckles. The safehouse was quiet. Tense. Too many things unsaid between them.
Soap stood in the narrow bathroom, or at least what he assumed was a bathroom, bent over the sink, washing off grit from his face and hands. The faucet hissed softly, filling the silence of the safehouse and fogging up the scratched and cracked mirror.
Then he felt it. That familiar weight behind him.
Ghost.
Soap looked up into the cracked mirror above the sink—saw the reflection of a mask, arms crossed, body still, watching him like always. And this time… Soap didn't pretend not to notice.
He turned slowly. Faced him fully.
Soap stepped closer—not close enough to invade, but enough that the air between them grew heavy, like a live wire.
"You always stare like that?" Soap asked, voice low. But it wasn't a question, because Ghost always stared to the point his eyes now haunted Soap's dreams.
Ghost didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Soap licked his lips, breath low, searching for something that didn't feel like a risk. But everything with Ghost was a risk. Always had been."You touched me. Back in Morocco." He swallowed, voice soft. "Held me like you meant it."
"I did," Ghost said, voice barely audible.
Soap studied him, for a long moment, weighting the risk and growing ache that had taken root in his chest.
"Let me touch you, too." He breathed, stepping forward. Close. Almost too close. His heart was beating like it was trying to break through bone. He lifted his hand slowly, deliberately, and pressed his fingers against Ghost's chest. Just to touch. Not a pull. Not a demand. But to feel.
Ghost didn't move. Didn't flinch.
But Soap felt his breath catch. Fast. Shallow. Unsteady.
Then—Ghost stepped forward. Until their foreheads nearly touched. The cool brush of the mask skimmed Soap's skin.
Soap closed his eyes, something in his chest softening as he leaned into the touch.
"I want you," Soap whispered. "Not just your shadow. You."
Ghost stayed frozen for a moment. Not with fear. Not with reluctance. But with the unbearable weight of being seen. Of being wanted in the open.
His hand lifted—hesitant at first—and rose to the edge of his mask.
"Don't move," he said quietly.
Soap didn't.
Ghost pulled the mask up, just enough to expose his mouth. Just enough to kiss him.
And God, he did.
It wasn't the kiss of a shadow or a ghost. It was real. Rough. Needy. Human.
Soap moaned into it, hands fisting in Ghost's shirt as he yanked him closer. Their bodies collided, all heat and desperation and unspoken hunger.
"Fuck, Simon," Soap gasped between kisses, and Ghost made a sound—low, ragged— to wild to be a moan, that sent fire straight to his groin.
Ghost pushed him back, step by step, down the hall and toward the bedroom. They never broke contact. Kisses turning bruising. Hands roving. Breaths shattering.
They reached the bed in a blur of motion and heat.
Ghost knelt over him, eyes sharp even behind the mask, like he couldn't believe this was happening. Like he was memorizing every second.
His hands were trembling as they slid down Soap's sides, skimming over bruises and sweat-slick skin, gripping at his hips like he needed to feel all of him.
He undressed him slowly. Reverently.
Not because he didn't know what he was doing—but because it mattered.
"Are you sure?" Soap asked, voice barely a breath. He asked more for Ghost than himself, because this is all he had wanted since Benghazi.
Ghost looked at him.
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life, Johnny."
Soap pulled him down with both hands, lips meeting again—softer this time. Deeper. Their naked chests pressed together, bodies aligning with a need that had been simmering for too long. Nothing between them but sweat and breath and tension collapsing into want.
Ghost took his time—exploring, tasting, kissing every inch like it mattered. Soap's moans weren't loud—they were broken, breathy, desperate.
"I want you, Simon. Not just the parts you let me touch. Not just in the shadows. I want to see all of you." Soap said breathless.
Ghost's throat worked around a silent breath.
"Take it off." Soap breathed, cradling Ghost's jaw, his thumb brushing against the edge of the mask.
"Johnny—" Ghost began, but Soap interrupted with a soft plea, "Please, I want to see all of you."
A breath. Two.
His hands hovered at the hem of the mask.
His eyes never left Soap's.
And when he pulled it off—
Soap didn't breathe.
Not because he was shocked. Not because he saw scars or rough lines or the weight Ghost carried in his jaw.
But because he saw Simon.
And Ghost let him.
He just whispered, "You're beautiful." and Ghost looked at him like no one had ever said that before.
"Come here," Soap said, voice wrecked. "Let me show you."
They met halfway.
No rush.
Fingers trembling. Mouths eager. Bodies fitting together like the world had shaped them for this. Like they were made for each other.
Ghost's hands explored like a man starved. He kissed Soap's neck, chest, stomach—worshipped him with lips and teeth and tongue. Every touch was deliberate. Every stroke carved with need.
Soap moaned his name again, hand tangling in Ghost's hair. "Simon… please." Grinding down on Ghost's fingers, desperate for more.
When Ghost finally pressed into him, slow and deep, Soap arched with a sound that wasn't quite a sob—but wasn't far off either. "Simon," he whispered again. "Simon~."
It wasn't rough. It wasn't fast.
It was full.
Simon moved inside him like he had something to prove. That he could be gentle. That he could have this. That he was more than a mask and a body count.
Soap clung to him, gasping, trembling, his hands never leaving Simon's back.
They moved like they were remembering something they'd never been taught.
Soap buried his face in Ghost's neck, and Ghost whispered his name again and again like a prayer. "Johnny… Johnny…"
And when they came together, with mouths pressed, names whispered, and foreheads touching—it wasn't about losing control—it was about giving it freely.