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butterbabyflapjack · 11 months

Text

BRAT

Ghost x fem!reader x Soap

[ Badjhur NSFW audio of chapter 2 ]

You’ve been acting like a brat, and Ghost has had enough of it.

“You can consider this punishment. Can consider it me spoiling your bratty behavior. But you wanted my attention, and you’ve gotten it. So tell me now if you don’t want me to bend you over this desk and fuck you until it breaks, otherwise I’m taking what I want from you, and you’ll accept everything I give like the greedy fucking whore you’re pretending so hard not to be.”

ೃ[ TAGS ] sexual content, sexual tension, dominant Ghost, cheeky Soap, power dynamics, messy feelings, voice kink, mask kink, glove kink, dom/sub, indirect daddy kink, biting, rough sex, begging, brat breaking, voyeurism, just a dash of possessive choking, forced eye contact, oral fixation, tactical gear kink, desk sex, possessive Ghost, love triangle, jealousy

ೃ[ TAGLIST ] @ahoycaptainautumn @your-highnessmarvel @wolfgalsniper @confuseddipshit @prettynalilgay @merzkihstuff @alfie2401 @emberwolfgames @willowbrookesblog @meujias @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @magicgal @verios @flrwpwr @jewelsisurmom @imjusthereforghostsmutt @circuskatt @darkstars-14 @maxksc-blog @lillianastuff @assia123-green @collarwhiskers @divergent-llamas-03 @voidinfernal

ೃ[ CHAPTERS ] chapter.1 - chapter.2 - chapter.3 - chapter.4

::chapter 4::

[ SUMMARY ] You try your best to avoid temptation, but Soap has other plans, ones your lieutenant might not appreciate.

[ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] If you started reading this when it first came out, there’s a nsfw audio of it now that’s super steamy thanks to badjhur and @urfavsunkissedleo~♡ it was a lot of fun to hear my work in a different format (not to mention badjhur’s voice is ummmmmmkhlkgjhj) and if you want to you should check it out! (with headphones!! trust me on this one)

Also, ♡!dubcon warning!♡ Also also, sorry about my poetry loving ass I could not help myself.

Also (it’s my last also I swear), I maybe forgot to say what your teammates look like, so here are their muses in case you’re interested.

You stare on in rising horror at the sexy little number Ghost is holding out on one far-too-casual, fully gloved finger; a stark contrast to just how overdressed he is yet how underdressed he wants you to be. Fighting not to feel the weight of everyone’s attention passing between it – that champagne-hued monstrosity – and you; the woman expected to wear it.

You.

You’re supposed to wear that.

For a mission.

This is not a joke. There is no punchline. Where’s a fucking punchline when you need one?!

And ‘dress’ really is a generous term for whatever that silky, clingy thing is he’s offering you in front of everyone, with all the silent expectance that you walk right over and take it.

And you should. You should just follow orders, especially since everyone is watching you.

“I am not wearing that,” you tell him firmly, instead; digging your heels in from across the room.

Even smeared black and shadowed by his hood, you can see the subtle flex in how he barely raises a single brow. And even from across the room, a room full of people staring at you, the darkened depths of Ghost’s eyes has its way of making you forget about everyone but him.

“It isn’t a request,” is his response, like gravel in his throat. Gruff. Succinct. “So stop being a brat. Come over here, and take it.”

But alright, we are jumping ahead of ourselves a little bit here. So let’s rewind about twenty minutes, to before your morning was ruined by shrink-wrap disguised as a dress. Back to when the only thing sabotaging your morning was one Johnny “Soap” MacTavish; and he was sabotaging it, and you, and everything.

The morning started out tolerably enough, about twenty minutes prior; heavy on the ‘started’.

Your eyes blink open, and though your cramped little room doesn’t have a window, you still get the sense that it’s dawn. And you sit up, rubbing your eyes awake upon the haphazard bed you’re still half-tangled in.

Getting the sense that its dawn is part of the reason you don’t like hanging out in your hovel of a room, even with its safety of a door to hide from the rest of your team behind. For all its supposed privacy, its lack of windows makes it feel like a cave with a lamp left perpetually on (because you don’t ever feel quite safe on missions, especially not in windowless dark, and especially not on this mission). Yet even with the lack of sunlight to tell you that it's dawn, to make you feel more human for a single second, life is good. Life is warm. Because when you first wake up, you don't remember anything.

And then that second passes.

And then you remember all the stupid things you’ve done.

Like letting your lieutenant fuck you over his desk, more-or-less in front of an audience.

And like you – vividly imagining sucking off Johnny’s calloused, spaghetti-sauced fingers at the exact same moment you’re batting eyelashes at him in the kitchen – also in front of an audience.

You really like making a fool of yourself on stage, don’t you?

Lord, what is this safehouse doing to you? To any of you? Nothing was this complicated before you all got trapped in this shoebox, before this mission began, and you blame this shoebox-sized apartment for everything.

So, yeah.

The morning started off tolerably, but this is where it starts to fall apart.

But don’t worry, it gets better – and by ‘better’ I of course mean worse. (And we're not even talking about the dress yet, but we’ll get to that. Believe it or not, there are worse things than that horrid little dress).

Lost in your frustration for this apartment and whatever mind games it's playing with you, a gruff knock at your door makes you jump so sharply you reel back in bed, thwacking your head against the headboard.

“Living room in twenty, Hush.”

It's Soap. You can tell by that husky voice you're beginning to loathe, because like Pavlov's dog, you salivate when you hear it.

Rubbing the ache from the back of your skull, you exhale a stifled groan, which apparently these paper-thin walls allow Johnny in on.

“You all good in there, lass?” he asks, sounding a bit too amused for your liking.

“M’fine,” you call back through your teeth, glad he can’t see you wincing, and maybe you should hide out in here all day even if it’s as suffocating as a submarine.

“Sounds like you took a tumble.”

You frown at your door, at where Soap must stand behind it, hand dropping. “Mind your own business, Soap.”

You hear his chuckle, like a rockslide breathed against the door, and suddenly you're blinking far too quickly at how the mere sound of laughter sinks like honey in your veins.

“Right now you are my business…” he murmurs, and why does something so seemingly innocuous make your gut clench?

You shake the flustering sensation away, forcing a scowl at the door. “Just – go! I’ll be out in a minute!”

Again, his lowered, breathy laugh does horrible things to you.

It’s the apartment – this stupid fucking apartment – it’s messing with you.

“If you say so, Hush,” Soap muses, before the heavy sound of his boot steps carries him further away down the hall.

Crisis averted.

For now.

It’s hard to be relieved when you know you’ll just come face-to-face with him again almost instantly, such is the size of this place. And when you do, who knows what you'll end up doing - it's like you and everyone else has lost their heads in here. And though you’re tempted to lock yourself away in your room, you refuse to hide in bed all day over two guys and a hundred possible bad decisions you’ve yet to make.

Mistakes have definitely been made during your unfortunate stint in this shoebox-sized purgatory, but that doesn’t mean you’ll entertain any more dumb ideas. And you’re fully resolved not to, just as you’re hellbent on pretending that nothing at all has happened already, that nothing at all has changed – not between you and Ghost, not between you and Soap, and definitely not between all three of you.

…

All three of you?

What’s that phenomenon called? That one where you tell yourself not to think about something, and then you just think about it ten times harder even more than you would have?

Cause that’s what’s happening now.

You and Ghost and Soap. It slips across your mind, and, oh, god, that’s officially the last thing you need right now, but like a viscid bad dream, you can't wake up, can’t scrape the image once it’s there.

And you have a vivid fucking imagination.

You can see it. Can feel it. A fever-wall of heat on either side of you, yourself a meal torn between two wolves; rough, greedy. Twin lips mapping your skin, your chest, your nape, your neck, marking every inch of you until everything is theirs. Gruff hands, wanting hands, possessive, tearing through your clothes, charting the smoothness of your skin. Calloused, wood-hewn hands that mold to you, mold you to them, between them, till every exhale is their groans or your gasps and you don’t know where you end and they begin.

And in this dream, this fever, Ghost’s mouth finds your ear from behind, rough voice warm against your skin.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks, like he already knows. “Greedy fucking thing.” Grabbing your waist, jerking your ass back into him; a puzzle piece that fits so snugly between himself and Soap.

You try to gasp something, maybe to deny it, but he only laughs; a purring, deadly cadence.

“Your little shivers don’t lie.”

We have officially lost cabin pressure.

And for a moment, you forget you're even awake. That fever-dream of them consuming you. But then you fall back into orbit, blinking hard enough to realize what you're actually imagining right now, and nearly hit your head against the headboard again just to make it fucking stop.

What are you– Jesus, get your head on straight, you are not – and I repeat, not – anywhere even close to the realm of fucking…

Even thinking their names makes your mind spin, or maybe that's something else.

This mission…!

Just… focus on the mission!

And let us reiterate: this tiny awful place is just fucking with all of your heads (especially yours, apparently). Making smoke of boundaries, muddying whatever lines should exist. That’s all. That’s it. And as soon as you’re out of here everything will go back to normal, it'll all be mercifully the same. Ghost and Soap won't hold these invisible strings around your heart and mind anymore, you won't still envision horrible things about them as you lie still-awake in bed.

But for now, with all of you locked up in here…

You just have to focus and avoid them.

Just. Don’t. Think. About. Them. Either of them.

The mission. Focus on the mission. (Of which you currently have little detail, as apparently you’re on the short end of a need-to-know basis, but god do you hope it ends soon).

Your morning, horny fever-dreams aside, starts with a goal as simple as that. Just don’t think about them, and for the love of god avoid being alone with either of them. Even when some part of you knows it won't be that simple, but hey, denial is a thing, a great thing, so you cling to denial and keep on chugging.

You avoid leaving your fish-tank of a room for as long as anxiety allows, only vaguely aware of how you’re chipping away at the ‘living room in twenty’ wake-up call Soap gave you, before eventually sleuthing your way out into the narrow hall, relieved to see Johnny isn't still there, as if waiting to ambush you, even though you knew he wasn't there, you can usually hear that man like a muscle-dense freight train from at least a mile away, but this place is making you more paranoid than you should be.

Still, you're relieved to find the hallway empty, and you sneak your way with all the stealth 141 has ingrained into your every sinew toward the kitchen, as if getting there in silence is a matter of life or death. Peeking your little head in to ensure neither of your gravel-toned, fever-dream apparitions are in there, before slinking in to pour cereal like a mad-woman and shovel it in your face at Mach 10 speed, and damn you should probably slow down before you chip a tooth or something.

Ash gives you a weird look, being the only person in the immediate vicinity of your apparent starvation.

"'Mornin'," he says, though his eyes question your sanity – to which you mumble something around a mouthful that might have been "hello," flashing a 'nervous?-I'm-not-nervous', chipmunk-cheeked smile (read: grimace) and stuffing your mouth even fuller to avoid speaking.

And hey, you haven't seen Ghost, you haven't actually seen Soap, and you haven't choked on your cereal – somehow. So as far as your plan of avoiding them goes, you're doing great so far! Just keep this up and this mission will be over in no time (ha!).

Tossing back the rest of your cereal, you leave your bowl in the sink as Ash nags after you to wash your dishes and you insist back that you will, later (under the safe cover of night, preferably), but right now you need to hide (the brave kind of hiding – you’re not a coward, I swear). Not in your submarine cave, because you're like a plant, you crave the sunlight. Your room is a last resort. Right now, you head toward the next best thing – your usual reading nook. You know, the one Ghost found you in yesterday, before… well, we won’t get into that. The point is, it’s the perfect place to waste hours at a time spilling over whatever old books and dog-eared magazines the one-shelf excuse of a library has to offer.

But it's here that your feet grind to a sudden halt, rooting you to the ground. Here, just outside the doorway of said reading nook. Because it's here that you see Soap.

Soap, lounging lackadaisically, without a seeming care in the world. Dark tee and dark jeans that somehow cling to his ridges in all the right places. Dust-wrapped boots already kicked up on the arm of the room's moth-bitten armchair, as he dangles a book before his face, obstructing all but his scruffy, chiseled jawline and corded neck from view.

He’s just lounging around on that armchair.

Your armchair.

Because you've been reading in here since day one, the day you all got trapped here; you saw it first.

So what is he doing in here?

He’s never in here.

And what is he reading? Does he even know how to read? He’s never reading.

You’re caught in fight-or-flight, still puzzling when alarm bells in your head start ringing – warning, warning, abort, abort, this is not a drill get the hell out of there – and you haven’t made it this far in your career not listening to your instincts when you're sound enough to have them.

You turn, you bolt, you scatter, before Soap can even glance around whatever book he’s dangling across that stupidly handsome face of his. And no, it's not exactly a graceful exit, but if you don’t heed your instincts now you may not get to later. Soap's roguish, sapphire gaze has a way of drowning out instinct and reason, as you’ve learned the hard way last night, and right now reason's telling you not to stick around and find out why the hell he's lying around pretending to read on your futon.

Nu-uh.

Nope.

Not dumb enough to slide into that one.

Best to avoid it.

Okay. So. No reading nook, then (thanks for nothing, Soap). And though you briefly consider foregoing sunlight altogether and just hiding away in your room, you instead scurry back down the hall, toward the charmingly constricted living room/kitchenette combo, supposing you'll find safety in numbers by using the safer members of your task force as a shield against those two others that plague you.

Ash, Fuze, and Blight are all crowded around the tiny box TV in the living room that only gets clear reception on three stations, like three gorillas sprawled on a toy couch, one that barely fits three guys the size of linebackers (you might’ve poked fun at how cozy they look were you not so currently twisted). And seeing that Ghost's not in the room solidifies this as your current safe haven, your preferred hiding place (or, hiding in plain sight behind a shield of tv-glued gorillas place).

And speaking of Ghost…

You clear your throat of any lingering nerves, attempting nonchalance as you make your way toward the bay window at the furthest edge of the room, a ways behind where the group of guys are sitting; settling in to sit upon its windowsill, your back against the wall.

“Where’s L.T.?” you ask with all that supposed nonchalance.

None of your team bother to glance back, too enthralled with whatever nonsense is on screen, though you know they heard you.

“Out,” Blight says. And okay, thanks for all the detail, Blight.

Still, that one word's enough to leave your brows slowly furrowing. Its potential, unstated meaning sinking in.

“He left the safehouse?” you ask, staring at the back of Blight’s head. "As in…” Dare you cling to hope? “We might be getting actual orders that get us out of here?"

Ash speaks up before Blight does.

“Hopefully,” he says, eyes still glued to the screen. “But at least some wheels are turning.”

“What kind of wheels?” you ask, not sure why you’re brushed by a fleeting edge of nerves.

“Dunno,” Ash says. “Him’n Gaz were pretty tight-lipped about it, but they’re due back in ten, hopefully with good news.”

“And a few six-packs,” Blight adds, without much enthusiasm.

"And a fucking steak would be nice," Fuze supplies, one arm sprawled along the back of the couch from where he sits, locked onto the screen. "I'm pretty sure Gaz's trying to kill us with what he thinks is cooking – I've eaten better stranded and starved on rations."

As the other boys weigh in about what a shit chef Gaz is (and they're not exactly wrong, though you don't chime in), you turn away from the group of them, staring down at the far-below streets of Amsterdam beside you, though in actuality you hardly see a thing, caught in your mind as you suddenly are.

You feel like you should be far more relieved by this than you actually end up being. And it makes no sense how this news – good news – that you might finally be unshackled from this shoebox purgatory… how it doesn’t alleviate some ache inside you, doesn’t fill you with some sweetly warm ease.

Maybe this place has given you Stockholm, because something about leaving now eats at you, like there’s something started and unfinished, and though you’re not sure what that something is you’re somehow raked by nervous claws, torn by wanting to know and never wanting to find out.

You’re being silly. You’re relieved, you’ve just forgotten what relief feels like. You’re more than ready to leave this place, you’re praying every second while trapped within this hellscape that you’ll finally be released.

This is a good thing. Finally, you’ll all be free, and you’ll never take a mission in Amsterdam again.

Whatever that annoying, gnawing feeling near your ribs is, you shove it away. And for some reason you think of Ghost, you think of Soap, and that ache comes back again.

How are you so tangled up in them?

Sure, you’re all close, closer than close, with everything you’ve been through. It’s impossible not to feel attached, not to feel somewhat vulnerable around people who’ve brushed by hell and back with you. The things you’ve all done, what you’ve all seen – it strips away layers of you, all of you, and what’s behind, what’s bared…

There’s nothing like it. It’s indescribable, what you share. You care about them more than you’d ever admit.

But that doesn’t excuse how you’re suddenly, perpetually haunted, unable to peel them from your head.

You care about all of your team, not just them – it's not supposed to be so personal, yet somehow it is. It’s tangled and raw and messy and you nearly have to laugh at that, because at least you know that Soap’s name is really Johnny – you don't even know Ghost's name, haven’t even seen his face, and yet somehow you can't stop thinking about him, like he's carved himself inside your mind, taken residence there, claiming a piece of you that you can’t get back, a piece you don’t want back, a piece that's only his.

How did your feelings evolve into whatever nightmare this is?

And speaking of nightmares.

"You're not as stealthy as you usually are this morning, love.”

A husky, familiar voice wavers in through your tangled thoughts from somewhere right in front of you, and you blink, suddenly seeing as it cheekily adds, "You might wanna work on that."

For the second time today, Soap has you startling back into hitting your head, skull thunking against the wall of the windowsill you’re perched upon, almost like he wants you to suffer a head-wound whenever he shows up out of the blue. And he definitely looks amused at whatever your face is doing right now as your owlish eyes shoot up to him.

He regards you from just beside the window, dense arms folded across the expanse of his chest. And he exhales his watchful amusement as all you can seem to do for a moment is gawk up at his magical appearance out of nowhere – ta da! – leaning one heavy shoulder against the wall the longer you go on about it.

“Someone’s jumpy,” he observes with a subtly curling grin, azure glints beneath his lashes. One corner of his lips edging wider the longer you fail to say anything, all while you resist the dire urge to just push off the windowsill and run from the potential danger of yourself around him.

"You gonna say hello, or…?" he wonders, idly. Smile too devilish to be charming, and yet he still looks charming and you hate him for it. “Ah, I see,” he muses after a time, with a sage expression of knowing. “Tongue-tied. I tend to have that effect on people. I'll give you a minute."

If anything, your dour expression only further fuels his amusement.

"What do you want, Soap?” you ask at last, doing your best not to showcase the uncomfortable flare you feel in your gut just by looking at him.

“To bother you,” he says, hiking a mischievous brow. "Is it working?"

The part of you that enjoys what were your usual back-and-forths wants to crack a smile, while all the rest of you holds back, knowing he’s bad news in a place like this, that maybe you can’t trust yourself, that the last thing you need is to encourage him.

“Yup," you say, dully. "It’s working.”

He grins. “Great,” he says, his infuriating nonchalance unaffected; gaze a slash of blue as you muster up a scowl at him.

"Has anyone ever told you how cute you are when you're in a bad mood?” he asks, eyes creasing as you once again resist the temptation to bolt. “You can't really blame me for wanting to bother you. It’s hard not to play with fire when the burn’s so appealing.”

That cheeky fucking smile of his lengthens at whatever your contorted, silent reaction to that is.

“Aye – there it is. That’s the look,” he muses, smirking as annoyance fizzles off your back. “Adorable. You look like you might wanna slap me.”

“I kinda do, actually,” you say – only half-joking. "Though maybe I'll just punch you in the face again like I did the last time you annoyed me."

“Zero to ten, just like that?” he wonders with his charming, crooked grin. “I haven’t even said ‘hello’ yet.”

You feel yourself smile before you can stop it – quickly biting your lips flat whilst turning away, staring hard out the window in the decided effort to ignore his presence.

“So say ‘hello’ and leave, then,” you mutter at the glass. “I’m kinda busy.”

"Huh. You don’t look all that busy."

"I'm people watching, not that it's any of your business."

"And that's more interesting than talking to me?"

"Is that rhetorical, or…?"

His little chuff teases warmth down your neck.

“Ah,” he lowly broods, as if in discovery of something. And you can’t help from glancing up at him again, seeing one dark brow archly lifted. “So you are avoiding me…”

You blink, thickly – trying to stem your panic, because you do not need him knowing that. If he thinks you’re avoiding him – which you very much are but that’s beside the point – he might ask the seemingly innocuous question of “why?”, and you are not answering that right now, especially when you're not even sure you know the answer yourself.

And thus, you panic (discreetly), you balk (in your head), insisting, “I’m not avoiding you.”

He doesn't necessarily look convinced.

“That’s odd,” he says, Scottish accent threaded in his words. “I could’ve sworn you tip-toed past that little reading nook you like so much just a few minutes ago.” His brow’s further lifted, that insufferable half-smirk still scrawled across his scruffy face. “Are you telling me that had nothing to do with avoiding?”

You bite your lower lip into a scowl, avoiding even his questions. “What were you doing in there, anyway? That’s my reading nook.”

“I know it is.” His blue gaze sheens. “What do you think I was doing in there?”

Your eyebrows tug into a crease, as slowly your eyes narrow up at him – all those instinctual alarm bells from earlier starting to make a helluva lot more sense.

“So you were lying in wait for me…” you accuse as much aloud.

He shrugs; boyish, adorable. “Had to get you all to myself somehow.”

His eyes warm like heated sea glass, seeming to sense that flush creeping up your neck as, for a moment, you can't seem to look away from him. And before you can look away, or make up some excuse to leave or actually slap him, he’s already pushing off from his casual, one-shouldered slouch against the wall, settling down upon the windowsill beside you.

“Guess you have a thing for audiences, though,” he murmurs, with a glance at the gorillas on the couch, glued to their screen.

When he looks back at you, he's far too close for his eyes not to capture yours.

Those alarm bells make a desperate reappearance in your head again, but you can hardly think with him watching you like that, let alone heed them. Some flicker of heat teased low in the base of your spine as his playful gaze dances over yours.

“Maybe my utter lack of enthusiasm wasn’t obvious enough,” you murmur, distracted; trying not to let the gorillas overhear whatever's happening between the two of you, especially since you don’t need their gossip playing telephone back to Ghost about something that’s actually nothing– ”but me telling you I’m busy was my unsubtle queue for you to leave.”

“Oh, I got it,” he says; attention skating across your features. Your lashes, your jaw, your eyes, your lips. “Crystal fuckin’ clear.”

And okay, maybe he actually is a little bit charming underneath how insufferably annoying he can be, because you certainly feel charmed, like you can’t look away from him.

"So you can pick up on subtle nuances,” you muse.

He smiles. "I can pick up on lots of things."

Your pulse catches as his words feel to dig inside a place you won't acknowledge, won't allow him or anyone to see, and you’re forced to swallow against a sudden knot within your throat.

"So is there a reason you're still over here harassing me then?" you wonder, folding your arms against him. “Besides you wanting me to slap you, that is? Because I’m not much in the mood for fueling your kinky fantasies this morning, though I see your last bruise’s healed nicely.”

He exhales a bearish laugh, though his mirth is slowly fading. Something more serious, like a shadow, creeping in to take its place. Timber-carved, reserved, unlike him.

“Maybe you can indulge my fantasy of you not avoiding me, then,” he suggests, gaze passing over yours, as though searching. “At least for, let's say… five minutes? Think you can handle that?"

Why do you actually gulp – god you hope he didn’t actually hear that.

"Do you always have to challenge women into spending time with you?"

One corner of his lips curls; a fox with sapphire heat for eyes. “Only the ones I’m interested in, apparently.”

It’s like he somehow strips away more and more of that now tiny voice warning you away – like he can see it happening. And he leans in just a fraction more close, his voice by your cheek, his words a gruff murmur that lures you closer just to hear them, those words meant just for you.

“I get it,” he says. “Why you’re so abrasive right now. Why you’re twisted up, lashing out. Avoiding.”

He’s so close the warmth of his body radiates into yours, like the tease of a touch you inexplicably long for.

At least, until he keeps talking.

“Whatever happened between you and L.T.–”

And just like that – the mere mention of Ghost’s name and all your feelings tied to it – the spells broken, torn from whatever trance he’s somehow spun you into.

"I don't – you don't know what–" you start to stammer, though his hand as it wraps around your forearm stills you, succeeds in pulling your anxiety-bitten gaze back to his for at least a moment more.

His touch is gentle, as if to ease you from fleeing, and yet he still seems unable not to tease you about it all the same.

"The details of which shall remain, at the lady's insistence, a badly kept secret,” he softly smirks. Chuckling as your face threatens to expel actual, embarrassed steam.

When you turn away, you’re not sure if it’s in readiment to get the hell away from him or in trying to ensure that anyone else in the room isn’t listening, though his thumb and forefinger finding your chin wipes whatever your intentions away, a warm jolt springing down your middle as he turns your uncertain gaze back to him.

“Whatever happened,” he breathes, a graveled hush as his eyes reclaim yours, “it’s got you twisted.”

A subtle smirk plays his lips at how utterly he seems to hold your attention, at how his touch makes you glass, makes you fragile before him. And even now he teases.

“And for good reason, too. L.T.’s not exactly the kinda guy I’d wanna get locked in a room with.”

You're forced to bite the inside of your cheek not to call him every insult you’ve ever heard of, so loudly everyone in the room starts tuning in.

“Please, God, make this conversation end,” you mutter instead, to which his jeweled-eyes sparkle, an added coil to his grin.

For a man his size, he somehow moves like fluid – shifting still closer, so close you’re boxed in against the wall of the windowsill behind you. So close that unthinking panic has your head dully thumping in a wavering bid to create distance, and you’re really starting to think he’s inspiring head-wounds on purpose.

His only reaction is the low laugh tucked inside his chest, one you feel vibrating through him, skittering across your bones, making your gut clench. And you can feel his voice, right beside you. You could push him away, though you don't. Somehow frozen against his warmth. Frozen, but for the shiver that travels through your spine as his whispered words graze against your ear.

“But here’s the thing, sweetheart,” he breathes, his rockslide warmth dragging all those sticky little knots inside you up into your throat. “Whatever’s twisted you up, whatever games L.T. might be playing… I’m not playing. I'm not twisted up in anything.”

The bridge of his nose skims across the delicate curve of your ear; a hum catching low in his throat as he seems to drink down the scent of you, the warmth of your nearness, those unwanted shivers he sends trickling down your nape as he murmurs, “I know exactly what I want…”

You’re not entirely sure what kind of stifled little sound wants to claw its way out of you as you hear him breathe you in again, as his hand finds your knee, but you’re not sure you want to find out; managing to bite back on it; biting still more harshly as his hand circles around your knee, squeezing, an iron grip that travels possessively upward, up along your thigh, firm fingers digging at your plushness, like he can’t contain some animal that longs to tear you open, to slip inside. And so much for your plans to avoid him, when now it feels there's nowhere you could hide.

You should say something, anything, but you can’t – especially as his fingers bite into you more harshly, as you feel a shudder travel through him, hear him stifle a coarsened breath.

“Hearing you moan someone else's name through these paper-fucking-walls…” His words sink to a growl that scrapes across your skin, pulls your insides tight, so constricted you can barely breathe. “Do you have any idea what that did to me?” he wonders, satin sawtooth heat against your ear. “What you do to me?”

You’re not sure if he’s actually asking – your throat constricting with the lack of knowing what to say.

“Johnny…”

He hums his approval, the sound like thunder in him, exhaled against your ear as his lips brush your skin.

“Aye, lass,” he says, his hand smoothing up around your waist, taking hold as though you belong to him; calloused thumb spilling up beneath your shirt, down below the waistband of your jeans, tracing along the ridge of your hip. “That’s the only name I want on your lips.”

You fail to choke back a gasp as his tongue finds your earlobe, sucking it in between his hungry teeth, and it's both exquisite and torturous how the heat of his mouth spears straight down between your legs, lapping between how tightly your thighs twist together, as though your body’s betraying how much you need him there; a white-hot ache that pulls a whimper from your throat, crackling across all your glass-hewn pieces.

“S-Soap,” you stammer, as if his codename will save you where his given name could not – somehow still present enough not to waver above a trembled hush, even with his tongue and teeth against your skin, traveling down your throat, marking and making a meal of you. And though you grab his wrist as if to push him away, you don't succeed in actually tearing his touch from you, even as you choke out desperately, “Stop…!”

He doesn’t listen. Instead taking the back of your neck, dragging you in to kiss him.

Rough fingers coil in your hair, twisting, tangled in you as you exhale a small, startled noise against his lips, before, before…

Everything’s hot. Everything’s melting. You can’t think.

He licks inside your mouth, and with another breathy sound against his lips, you kiss him back, desperate for his warmth, his taste; as though lost in a storm that rises and consumes, that would see you torn to pieces but for the anchor of him you cling to.

You’re lost, and you're hopeless, and you're senseless and you need him.

You grab his shirt as he swallows down that little sound you make, tongue sinking inside your warmth, and suddenly you’re his. His to possess, his to do what he wants with.

Your heart nearly shatters through your ribs at the granite-coarse sound he makes against your tongue, before he’s kissing you more fiercely, gruff fingers twisting at your roots.

He pauses only long enough to tease you, because of course he does.

“Stop, she says,” he murmurs at your lips. “Slap me, and maybe I will.” Not waiting before his tongue draws yours back out to play, to belong to him.

And some vicious part of you wants to slap him, if only to disrupt how fucking cocky he is, but the wet, eager heat of his mouth erases all your thoughts until it feels like you can’t even breathe unless you’re breathing him.

This is when the front door of this dingy little Amsterdam apartment unlocks; a distant, metallic scratching.

This is when the front door of this dingy little Amsterdam apartment opens; itself thrown casually ajar.

Right now. With your and Johnny’s tongues wrapped halfway down each other’s throats. Because of course it does – you love an audience, right?

Twenty minutes are up.

“Fucking finally…!”

You somehow hear Blight's voice clamor through the fog surrounding your thoughts, like a ship horn far from shore; carving through the mist, growing louder, more clear, more jarring as he adds, “Please tell me we’re getting out of here, Ghost – I'm one Gaz-cooked meal away from blowing my own brains out.”

And then it hits you – reality punching you in the chest, all your nerves upended, and still it takes a single second – a single, time-defying second – to actually register, to react, to realize what the fuck you’re actually doing right now, making out with Soap in the fucking living room what the hell are you thinking–!

A single second. And then you tear yourself away, twist your kiss-plushed lips from Soap’s – jerking back, shooting to your feet, edging out a shaky step against the wall as though you’ll crumble without it supporting you. Eyes overwide as apprehension tears your heart out, and even then some ache pushes through your chest, pushing through your ribs, like it wants to climb right out of you, climb anywhere where it might at last be tended, at last be soothed, and you shove it violently away, just as you do all those tangled feelings inside you.

You see Blight shifting up off the couch, sauntering toward the door just a few feet ahead of him. And you don’t know why you’re panicking, but you're panicking, it seizes through you like a ricocheting round as you see Ghost and Gaz standing there. Gaz’s lips moving, saying something you can’t even hear as he shuts the door behind them.

Blight’s talking too, you think. Saying something to Ghost. And it feels like it’s been so long since you’ve actually seen your lieutenant, even when it’s only been a day.

Ghost isn’t looking at Blight.

He’s a shadow-carved monolith. A black smudge against a silver eclipse. A hooded omen with kohl-bruised eyes and a skull’s broad, pallid jawline sewn to the lower half of his face.

Tall. Imposing.

Rigid.

He’s a mountain of unknown intention. And he’s looking right at you.

Something about him snares you from all the way across the room. Grips your very bones, snatching them and you into his possession. There is no escape from the way he’s watching you. His eyes are chasmic, labyrinthian; dark, unreadable voids above his skeletal mask.

Those eyes suck you in, fill your chest and heart and lungs with their darkness. They slide against your marrow, inscribing words you’ll never see unless you tear yourself open.

And then those eyes fall to Johnny.

Ghost can transcend humanity when he wants to. You’ve seen it before, in the field. A rare and dangerous occurrence where he’s more beast than man. But you never thought whatever monster lie in him would ever direct itself at Soap. Would ever watch him like he’s watching him right now.

It’s a look that could bend iron around you. Could hollow your insides out, leave you a rib-caged cavity. A jackal look. A beast that bares its blood-stained teeth as the other jackals stalk near.

That look could stop your very heart from beating, and for a moment you swear it does, even when it’s not directed at you. Just being in its presence is stifling. Those eyes of Ghost’s a noose, a cattle-gun, a guillotine.

If people are still talking, you can no longer hear anything beyond the thud of your own heart restarting. Can no longer see anything else at all in that room. All you can see is Ghost, and all you can feel is that darkness radiating off him.

----------------------------

[ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] I think Ghost might be mildly pissed off.

Thanks for reading!

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