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Summary
Ghost sighs long and exaggerated, sinking into himself and reaching for the lip of his balaclava to hide the unending spread of his bourbon flush.
Or, he would, if Soap didn’t bury his hand in the coarse, black cloth at the back of Ghost’s head and tug until his chin points towards the ceiling and the long column of his throat is bared.
“Does it go all the way down, Lt?” Soap teases, tracing the edge of splotchy red bleeding down Ghost’s neck.
Ghost decides, in this moment, that neither of them will survive this.
Ghost is ruined and Soap is in his blind line of fire, eyes lidded and content, like there’s no place he’d rather be than staining the barstool next to Simon fucking Riley. Even as Ghost pushes him away, even as he grovels into the varnished, undeserving counter, Soap stays close and unfathomably warm. Because he knows.
You liked that, he oozes, bleeds.
or: soap keeps pulling ghost around by the back of his mask. maybe ghost is a little more telling than he realizes.
Series
- Part 3 of scout’s anon work