Chapter Text
✦•⋆•☠•⋆•✦
John ‘Soap’ MacTavish had spent his entire adult life in the army.
Years wrapped in fatigues, Months lived out of duffel bags, on bases that all smelled the same, like burnt coffee, sweat, and dust. Faces came and went in a blur: some long forgotten, others etched into memory like scars.
He’d seen the best and worst of them. When he was a wide-eyed recruit, all he had to do was follow orders, a soldier’s first duty, especially at the bottom rung. But much to his superiors’ frustration, Soap was never very good at that.
He wasn’t the type to sit quietly and obey some suicidal, half-baked plan while a commander sat back and watched them scramble like they were his jesters.
Still, he worked hard. Maybe that was the only reason he hadn’t been booted for insubordination. The name Soap wasn’t just a callsign, it was something he earned through blood, grit, and a knack for cleaning up messes no one else could handle.
Over time, he rose through the ranks, eventually earning the title of sergeant, a rare feat for someone his age. But climbing the ladder came with a cost: he now had to command some of the most thick-headed, brain-dead wankers he’d ever had the misfortune to meet.
Not all of them, of course. There were exceptions. A few could actually hold their own.
Price, his favourite captain. Sharp, steady, a true leader. The reason Soap was even in the 141.
Gaz, easy-going, sharp-minded, dependable. They worked like clockwork, each covering the other’s blind spots.
But Ghost?
Working with Ghost was something else entirely.
Together, they were unstoppable. From the first op in Las Almas, they clicked, no awkward adjustment period, no learning curve. Just pure synergy. They took on a city and walked out alive.
Ghost made him feel stronger, sharper, like a performance enhancer wrapped in a skull mask. Around him, Soap was the best version of himself. After eighteen months and dozens of missions, he knew exactly where they stood.
Until now.
Now, everything felt off. That sure, easy rhythm was gone. Every word felt like a risk. Every move, a misstep. It was like walking a minefield.
“Johnny, enemy sighted. First floor.” Ghost’s voice crackled in his ear, smooth, low, dangerous like the devil whispering too close.
Soap never had trouble focusing on a mission. Usually, his mind zeroed in, calculating every angle, every threat. But today, even in the middle of an op, his thoughts wandered.
To Ghost.
Ghost hunched over a laptop somewhere above him, deep in the rotting guts of a decaying hospital. Ghost who was calm, composed, miles from safety, but never off balance.
It had taken months for the 141 to track the terrorists to this ghost town. They’d turned the place into a fortress. And now, finally inside, Soap couldn’t keep his head in the game.
“You’ve got two minutes till contact, Soap.”
That voice again. Rougher now. He should have been moving.
Instead, all he could think about was Ghost’s mouth on his, rough, certain, consuming. His body, his hands, deliberate and unforgiving. Taking Soap apart, piece by piece.
“Soap, do you read?”
The voice cut through the haze.
He blinked, refocusing. The download had finished. He yanked the USB from the terminal and shoved it into his jacket pocket.
“Loud and clear, Lt. Intel secured.”
He crossed the room with a couple of large, focused steps, his target the shattered window. No way out the way he came in, the body he’d left on the stairs would be found any minute now. The clock was ticking.
“One minute, Soap.” Ghost again. No playfulness now, just pure command.
Soap smirked. “Aw, sir. You doubt me?”
He could almost feel Ghost watching, eyes locked on the building, tracking every shadow, every inch of movement.
No more waiting. He moved, jamming a grappling hook into the concrete ledge. Cracks spiderwebbed out from the anchor. Dust rained down the building’s face, drifting into the dark eight stories below.
He winced.
Not exactly a secure hold.
But there was no time to find another option.
Shouts erupted behind him, voices he didn’t recognise. Footsteps thundered down the hallway, closing in fast.
No choice.
Soap gave the line one hard tug, then shoved off the ledge. His body dropped from the window, the building racing past as he rappelled downward.
“Got eyes on you. Perfect timing,” Ghost muttered in his earpiece.
Ghost was hard to read, always had been, but Soap knew him well enough to hear the relief buried in that voice.
“As usual, LT,” Soap shot back, sailing past the fifth-floor window.
Then the line jerked.
A sudden, violent snap, like a rollercoaster lurching off track.
His stomach dropped, gaze snapping upward.
His eyes saw it. The anchor point was giving way, the hook bending as the concrete around the grapple hook cracked and splintered, dust and debris breaking loose and pelting his face.
Panic surged. His instincts kicked in. He swung his body, aiming for the next window ten meters below.
Then-
The wire went slack.
A split second of weightlessness. That gut-punch feeling of falling.
Soap gritted his teeth, twisting mid-air. His hands shot out, reaching for the next ledge.
His fingers caught it, barely.
A heartbeat of hope, then the brittle concrete disintegrated under his grip, crumbling like dried bone.
He was falling again, stomach lurching at the feeling.
“You mother-!”
No time to finish.
Another ledge in sight. He reached, missed.
“Johnny!” Ghost’s voice, sharp, cutting through the chaos.
Soap’s fingers finally caught the next ledge. But the fall had built too much momentum. He hit hard.
A sickening pop.
A white-hot bolt of pain tore through his right shoulder as it dislocated with a violent snap. He tried to catch himself with his left arm-too late.
His grip failed.
Two more floors blurred past.
Then-impact.
A brutal, jarring slam into the earth. Dirt and debris exploded around him. Pain roared through his body. A raw, unfiltered scream tore from his throat.
He knew instantly, he’d been heard. His cover was blown. No time to dwell. No time to check the damage.
Move.
Adrenaline surged, cutting through the pain like fire. Soap forced himself up, legs stumbling beneath him. He bolted, diving into the ruins of the abandoned city, ducking into shadows and broken buildings.
Behind him, shouts. Orders barked. The enemy boots on the move.
“Keep going, Johnny. I got you.” Ghost’s voice again, calm and certain in his ear.
Bullets whipped overhead, slicing the air.
Soap didn’t need to look.
His guardian angel was watching.
✦•⋆•☠•⋆•✦
Soap let out a snarl of pain as the nurse tucked his arm into the sling, clearly unbothered by the discomfort she was causing.
Relief washed over him when she finally nodded, seemingly satisfied with the pain she had inflicted and walked away.
He hated the med bay. If it weren’t for army red tape, he would’ve popped his dislocated shoulder back into place himself and been on his way. But apparently, the military had a “duty of care”, and they wouldn’t let him play field medic on himself.
Ghost stood nearby, not a scratch on him. Still, the nurses had insisted on giving him a full check-up. Soap didn’t blame them. Hell, he’d have done the same. And he hated himself for thinking it.
It wasn’t exactly a secret that Soap enjoyed the company of both men and women. But years in the army, surrounded by fit, capable men, had... fine-tuned his preferences. And while he’d always acted his rank, no messing around at work-Ghost made that vow harder to keep by the day.
Ghost. His own personal devil on his shoulder, not that the bastard would ever know it. At the end of the day, Soap knew it was just a fantasy. Ghost had never given any indication otherwise. That should’ve been the end of it.
But Soap’s brain didn’t know when to quit.
The door swung open, and Price and Gaz strode in. Looking well-rested when compared to the other two members of the 141.
“Good work, lads,” Price greeted with a warm nod.
Gaz made a beeline for Soap, offering a sympathetic smile as he nodded toward the sling. “How do you always end up back here, MacTavish?”
Soap chuckled. “Ay, I’m just a regular James Bond. Can’t help it.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” Ghost’s rough voice cut in from behind, catching Soap off guard.
He turned to see Ghost watching him, eyes gleaming with amusement.
“See? That’s the support I expect.”
Ghost nodded, deadpan. “Specifically in Casino Royale, when he gets his balls whipped.”
Price tried and failed to hide a laugh. Gaz didn’t even try. Soap shot Ghost a dirty look.
“Ay, no need to get nasty, LT,” he grumbled. Then, with a grin, “Wouldn’t mind Mads Mikkelsen whipping my balls, though.”
Gaz sucked in a sharp breath.
Price groaned.
Ghost let out a rough chuckle.
“Jesus, MacTavish,” Price muttered, rubbing his temples. “Keep it professional.” He cleared his throat and continued, voice shifting back to captain mode.
“I came to tell you both you’ve earned a couple weeks off. But I’m this close to keeping you here, just to train the newbies.”
Gaz turned to him with a grin. “Isn’t your musical trauma cult back in London this week?” Soap’s head snapped up, looking at Gaz with amusement “It’s called screamo, Gaz.”
“It’s awful, whatever it is,” Price grumbled.
Soap had a reputation for blasting his music through the barracks, loud, chaotic, and usually just as everyone was trying to sleep. The whole team had become painfully familiar with his taste during their last deployment, when Simon bet him, he couldn’t land a sniper shot from 1,640 Yards. He did. The reward? Full control over the music on the drive back to base. Much to everyone’s regret.
“Ay, I’ll take that as a compliment, coming from someone who thinks Dire Straits slaps,” Soap called back with a grin.
“Bloody hell, MacTavish,” Price muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. Clearly, his tolerance for Soap’s shit had expired.
“Be off this base in the next hour, or I’ll drag you out myself.”
Soap threw a mock salute. “Aye, sir. Wouldn’t dream of testing your patience further.”
He absolutely would.
Price turned to Ghost, his tone softening like he was speaking to the golden child. “Enjoy your leave, Simon. I’ll see you both in a couple of weeks.” Then he was out the door.
Soap turned to Gaz, grin twitching back into place.
“Oi, you want to come Saturday? I’ll give you a proper education in screamo.”
Gaz looked genuinely horrified. “That sounds like a punishment, not a night out. Besides, my mum throws a big family thing when I’m home.”
Soap scoffed. “Imagine having a loving family.”
It wasn’t exactly a secret that his own was a bag of dicks.
Gaz let the comment slide, casual but not unkind. “You can still buy me a beer sometime, MacTavish.”
Soap rolled his eyes, the grin softening into something a little more genuine.
“Such a gentleman, Gaz.”
“Right, need to pack. See you both later.” Gaz waved and slipped out. Soap knew he’d see him soon, they always ended up catching up over leave.
He turned back to Ghost, who was still leaning against the wall, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Soap opened his mouth, maybe to ask what Ghost was doing on his break, or where he’d be, but he didn’t get the chance.
The nurse returned, clipboard clutched tight, beelining straight for Ghost.
“Jesus Christ, woman,” Soap barked, patience snapping. “You’ve done every test under the bloody sun. If you want his shirt off, just ask!”
The nurse flushed crimson, wide-eyed. She muttered something unintelligible and scurried off.
The irritation left Soap just as fast, replaced by the low heat of embarrassment. He cleared his throat, refusing to look at Ghost.
Ghost was grinning. “If you want me to keep my shirt on, Johnny, you could just say so.”
Soap’s face lit up instantly. “Bile yer head, LT,” he muttered, turning away fast.
But his thoughts were already spiralling.
Holy fuck, he thought. He needed a proper lay.
✦•⋆•☠•⋆•✦
A couple of days later, he was out of sickbay. Out of uniform. Off-base. Dropped straight back into society like nothing had happened.
It was always disorienting, going from military rhythm to civilian chaos. One minute, your entire life ran on structure: strict schedules, clipped comms, the ever-present hierarchy of rank. Next, you were just some bloke in jeans standing at a crosswalk, no one saluting you, no one watching your six.
The silence was the worst.
No comms chatter. No boots hitting the ground in sync. No Gaz humming under his breath in the seat beside him. Just the hum of his fridge and the occasional groan of the pipes in his flat. It made the space feel hollow.
He tried to settle back into normal life. Watched a few reruns. Went for a run that nearly turned into a full tactical sweep. Considered calling Gaz, then didn’t.
By day three, he couldn’t sit still anymore.
The concert was a lifeline. An anchor. The one kind of noise he could handle.
It was held in some tucked-away venue off Camden Road, barely marked from the outside, unless you knew what to look for. Inside, it was all cracked black paint and flickering lights. The ceilings were low, the stage smaller than his barracks bunk, and the floor had long given up on not being sticky.
Soap couldn’t have been happier.
The air inside was hot and close, reeking of sweat, beer, and cheap smoke machines. Bass thrummed through the crowd, vibrating in his chest like a second heartbeat. The guitars screamed. The vocalist howled. And the crowd, the crowd moved. All chaos and elbows and shared momentum.
This was what he loved.
No orders. No masks. Just noise. Noise that made his head stop buzzing.
He moved with purpose, weaving through the waves of people toward the bar. He needed water, maybe a beer. Something cold to cool the sweat sliding down the back of his neck.
A fresh wave of sound tore through the space as the next band launched into their set. Purple stage lights strobed overhead. The bar glowed dimly in the distance, a makeshift lighthouse in a sea of flannel and black t-shirts.
He leaned in against the counter, the familiar press of sticky laminate against his arms strangely comforting.
He hadn’t even opened his mouth to order when someone bumped him from the side, hard.
Soap twisted around, his instincts coiled, half a snarl already forming on his lips and stopped dead in his tracks.
A familiar face. Cropped ink black hair. Leather jacket zipped halfway. A smile that always came with too many strings attached.
It hit him like a punch to the gut, like hearing a click under your boot.
“Kade?” Soap blinked, stunned.
His ex-gym trainer, friend and most importantly, his ex.
Tall, lean, and still unfairly good-looking. Same sharp jaw, same piercing brown eyes with that familiar golden hue Soap had always found distracting. His black hair was shaved tight at the sides, swept back on top with effortless style.
Soap’s gaze dropped instinctively to take him fully in. Kade’s arms were wrapped in even more ink from when Soap had last seen him. Black lines weaving in intricate patterns all the way to his hands.
“Got more ink, I see,” Soap said, slightly lamely caught of sight by the man. He caught himself, tried to recover, leaning against the bar, catching the glint of gold in Kade’s ears, the rings catching in the low light.
Kade grinned, fingers ghosting over the hem of his shirt “Well... most of it’s out of view.”
Cheeky bastard. Soap grinned. Exactly what he had liked about Kade, he welcomed that tonight, he needed the distraction.
In hindsight, now Soap was able to recover from the shock of seeing Kade again, it had made sense he was here tonight, they had always had a similar taste in music, it had been the thing that created the bridge between them, well that and they were both down for a good causal fuck when they had first met.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Kade said, raising an eyebrow. “Figured you’d be off saving the country or something.”
Soap tipped his head back, flashing a cocky grin, two could play that game “Ay, already did. That’s why I’m here.”
Kade chuckled, low, warm, and just a little cocky. “Missed that confidence, MacTavish.”
Soap caught the heat in his gaze. He knew that look. And he wasn’t about to waste it, not after months without this kind of release. And with Kade, of all people? Even better. They had history. Kade knew what he liked, a familiar body, a familiar bed to fall into.
His eyes lingered on Kade’s arms, still built like a dream. Being a personal trainer wasn’t just for show with him. Kade understood discipline, control, the rush of pushing your limits until you broke and then pushing further.
Soap had met him years ago during an extended leave; he’d signed up at a local gym just to kill time. Kade had been the in-house PT, cocky smile, teasing banter, and a “free assessment” Soap didn’t need. But he’d taken it anyway.
Kade had clocked the interest quickly. Their sessions went from one to two, then turned into something else entirely, after-hours sessions in a closed gym with no one around.
Lucky for them, Kade had access to the security cameras and knew exactly how to delete the footage.
That had been the foundation for something more. They got on well enough, shared a love for heavy music, a respect for hard work. So, they gave it a go.
It lasted through a few deployments, but eventually, it wore thin. Kade wasn’t built to be a military ‘wife,’ waiting on messages that never came and flights that always got delayed. Soap couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t for everyone. It was just another reminder why he didn’t date civilians anymore.
They’d ended on good terms. No hard feelings.
But now, with Kade standing here, looking at him like that, Soap wasn’t thinking about the past. Only the night ahead.
“You gonna tell me how you saved the country?” Kade’s voice was teasing, testing the waters.
Soap smirked, but the playfulness didn’t reach his eyes. “You know that’s classified.”
He caught it, the flicker in Kade’s gaze, the slight dimming of his smile. Familiar. Too familiar. And that right there was why it hadn’t worked.
Before the mood could sour, the next song roared to life behind them-loud, fast, angry. The bass pounded through Soap’s chest like a second heartbeat.
He didn’t bother shouting over it. Instead, he reached out, rested a hand on Kade’s back, and flicked his eyes toward the stage. Come on.
Kade nodded. A hint of playfulness returned. No words needed-they both knew this wasn’t about getting back together. They weren’t built to last. But for tonight? They could forget all that.
They pushed through the crowd together, bodies brushing, heat rising, and the music swallowing the rest. Soap let the music take him. The beat. The press of bodies. The heat.
Kade slid in behind him, chest against his back, arms brushing his sides. Always the affectionate one. It felt good. Normal. A break from war and orders, and silence. A fantasy he could lean into, just for a little while.
But his mind wandered.
Ghost.
He couldn’t imagine Ghost being here. Couldn’t picture him pressed against his back, dancing in a crowd, whispering in his ear.
But God, he wanted it. Wanted anything Ghost was willing to give.
He cut the thought off.
It wasn’t going to happen. Simple as that. It was a fantasy, nothing more.
That’s why he was here tonight, he reminded himself.
To forget. To push it all aside.
A good old factory reset.
He leaned back into Kade’s warmth, forcing himself to focus on the now, on the press of a body against his, on the low burn still simmering inside him, on the quiet promise of what the rest of the night might hold.
The lights flashed. The crowd screamed. The energy surged.
And then-
Kade leaned in, his lips brushing Soap’s neck. A silent question.
Soap didn’t hesitate. He turned, his hand slipping into Kade’s hair, tugging him down into a kiss.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t tender.
It was lust.
Soap poured it all into the kiss, heat, need, the desperate hunger of a man trying to overwrite something else. He didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to feel anything but the scrape of teeth, the burn of skin, the press of another body that wasn’t his.
Kade responded eagerly, hands gripping Soap’s hips, dragging him closer until there was no space between them. The music pulsed around them, bodies bumped and swayed in the crush of the crowd, but Soap didn’t notice. He was lost in the rush, in the familiar rhythm of lust.
Hands slid under shirts, searching, grabbing, grounding. Kade’s mouth was hot and insistent, but Soap was the one chasing it, like a man starving.
Forget him. Forget Simon. Forget how he looked standing there in that damn black shirt, watching.
Soap kissed harder.
He needed more. More heat, more friction-more to drown the ache building in his chest.
He pulled back, breath ragged, eyes locked on Kade’s.
They were dark now, blown wide with lust, pupils swallowing the colour. That hungry look. Soap remembered it well.
Kade had always had a thing for this.
For risk. For danger. For being seen.
Exhibitionism.
Right now? That suited Soap just fine.
He leaned in, lips brushing Kade’s ear, close enough to be heard over the thunder of bass and voices.
“Remember that exercise you taught me on the…” He paused, breath hot, searching for the name. “...that leg press machine? The one where you pinned me against the backrest pad?”
Kade’s grin turned feral. “How could I forget?” he called back over the music.
“Think you could do it on a wall?”
Soap barely finished the sentence before Kade yanked him forward again, crashing their mouths together in a filthy kiss.
That was a yes, then.
Kade didn’t waste time. His hand found Soap’s, tugging him through the crowd, off to the right of the venue, away from the stage, away from the pulsing lights.
Behind the standing area, past the hallway leading to the bathrooms, they slipped into a shadowed gap between the wall and a stack of unused furniture. A storage nook. Cramped, dark, and hidden, just big enough for two.
Soap’s back hit the cold concrete wall with a muted thud. Kade crowded into him, hands under his shirt, mouth dragging down his neck.
Soap let it happen. He wanted this.
He needed it.
He wanted to lose himself in skin, in touch, in sweat.
He wanted to forget.
Kade bit his collarbone, and Soap hissed, fingers digging into Kade’s arms.
And that’s when-
“Enjoying yourself, Johnny?”
The voice cut through the muffled bass like a knife.
Soap froze.
Kade jolted, pulling back, brows furrowing in confusion.
And there, standing at the edge of the narrow alcove hidden away from the venue, just beyond the stacked furniture, stood Simon Riley.
Ghost.
“Jesus Christ, LT?!” Soap’s voice cracked with disbelief and a healthy dose of horror.
He had never seen Ghost off-duty. Never seen him like this.
The balaclava was gone, replaced by a sleek black fabric mask. A black cap sat low over messy blond hair, a few strands poking free. But those eyes, deep, familiar brown, were unmistakable, even under the haze of dim lights and pulsing shadows.
Kade gawked.
And Soap knew that look too.
Fuck.
Simon was Kade’s exact type, tall, broad, exuding control with a body built from years of functional strength. The perfect storm for a personal trainer’s walking wet dream.
“Jesus Christ…” Kade muttered, a little breathless. “Is this the LT you were always going on about?”
Soap shot Kade a sharp look. You absolute traitor.
Simon definitely heard that. A grin tugged at the edge of his mask, subtle but undeniable.
His eyes locked on Soap, warm, glinting with something Soap couldn’t place. Amusement? Challenge?
“You talk about me, Johnny?” His voice was low, teasing. He was enjoying this.
Soap’s face burned hot. From the kiss, the interruption, the fact that of all people, Ghost had caught him like this. And now he was standing there, cool, calm, infuriatingly unreadable.
And hot. Fuck, he looked hot.
“Not often,” Soap managed to bite back, voice stiff. “Only when I’m venting.”
Simon arched an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.
Kade, oblivious to the tension, chuckled. “Well, you left out how fit he was.”
That earned him a look from Soap so sharp it could’ve drawn blood. But Ghost just stood there, watching. Saying nothing. Letting the weight of the moment settle like a stone in Soap’s gut.
They stood like that for a beat, the thrum of the music muffled by the walls around them. For the first time, they were together, off-duty, out of uniform, after everything they’d been through. All the things left unsaid pressed heavily between them, louder than any song outside.
Kade cleared his throat. “Soo…” he started, glancing between them with an awkward grin, clearly trying to cut through the tension. “You and your sergeant share the same taste in music, then?”
It was a jab, light, but pointed. He didn’t believe the words, not really. Soap could hear it in his tone, see it in the way Kade looked at Simon. He’d built an image in his head based on the bits Soap had shared. But even then, Soap had been careful, never once using Simon’s name around him. Never “Simon,” never “Ghost.” Just “the LT.” Always.
Simon stared at Kade, and there was something in his expression that Soap couldn’t place. Cool. Dismissive. Not anger, not quite. Just… frost.
Then Simon spoke, his voice low and even. “Tastes don’t always align. Ask your ex.” He shot a glance at Soap as he said it.
Soap had to stifle a laugh despite himself. God, Simon was brutal. He loved him for it. He’d never met anyone quite like Simon Riley and he doubted he ever would again.
It didn’t surprise him that Ghost had clocked Kade as an ex. Over time, Soap had learned just how sharp Simon’s mind really was. He acted disinterested in personal lives, kept his distance, but he didn’t miss a thing. Even a passing comment, even when you thought he wasn’t listening, Simon remembered everything. That’s what made him dangerous. That’s what made him perfect.
Soap was pretty sure he’d let it slip to Gaz once, muttered something about Kade during a quiet moment in the mess, but of course Simon had heard. Of course, he’d filed it away for later.
Kade didn’t react right away, but Soap caught the flicker in his expression. The smile he gave Simon was smooth, charismatic, smooth. Tight at the corners.
Then, without breaking eye contact, Kade leaned in, resting his head on Soap’s shoulder. His arms wrapped around Soap from behind, front pressed against his back in a possessive show he had no right to make.
“On the other hand,” Kade said, voice light but loaded, “maybe we do share some taste, yeah?”
It was a jab. A challenge.
And Soap could feel it, the line being drawn.
Kade leaned in close, lips pressing a possessive kiss to the curve of Soap’s neck. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t affectionate. It was a mark - a warning. A silent, ego-fuelled claim.
Like he had any right.
Like he was something more than a warm body for the night.
Soap stiffened. Every instinct in him recoiled. This wasn’t desire, it was posturing. The moment Simon had shown up, Kade’s energy had shifted. It wasn’t about connection anymore; it was about winning. Soap felt it in the way Kade’s teeth scraped skin, not in passion, but in challenge.
And he wasn’t fucking having it.
He pulled away sharply, sending Kade a warning look, not angry but disappointed. A clear boundary drawn.
Something flickered in Kade’s eyes. Confusion. Maybe a little guilt.
“That’s a bit fucking far for me, mate,” Soap said, voice low but firm. “Need some air.”
The words hung heavy, not an accusation, but a truth.
He didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t give Kade the space to play it off or push it further.
As he stepped back, he caught the way Kade glanced up at Simon, sheepish, unsure, like he’d only just realised what he’d done. Before Soap could see any more, he turned and walked off, disappearing into the thick press of bodies, heading toward the exit.
✦•⋆•☠•⋆•✦
Soap had slipped into a narrow alley beside the venue, the cold London night biting at his skin. He leaned against the brick wall, trying to focus on the cigarette burning between his lips, trying to let the smoke be his escape.
It wasn’t working.
His two lives had collided head-on. The man he’d spent months trying to compartmentalise, trying to push away because there were too many feelings there, too much he couldn’t name, had just walked in on him with his ex.
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. The thought of Simon seeing him like that pressed against a wall, desperate, needy, was enough to make him want to dig a hole and throw himself in it.
And Kade? Hadn’t even come out to apologise. No check-in, no conversation. Just silence.
Nail in the coffin, that.
“Smoking, Johnny?” That voice. Low. Rough. Familiar. Perfect.
Soap blinked, startled out of his thoughts. He looked down the alley to see Simon Riley walking toward him, hands in the pockets of his jacket, posture relaxed, unbothered as ever.
“Full of bad habits, LT,” Soap muttered, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette.
“Clearly,” Simon said, not unkindly. He leaned against the opposite wall his eyes fixed on Soap’s face. Intense. Quiet. Calculating.
Simon always looked like he was cataloguing things, like he could remember every detail he saw, the way he remembered everything he heard. Watching him was like being studied.
Soap opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then, finally sighed, turning his head away. “Can we just forget about all that?”
Simon’s voice was low, even. “Nothing wrong with it. You weren’t exactly quiet about your preferences.”
Soap groaned. “You’re not helping.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed with amusement. “Seemed like the type of lad to fulfil all your ball-whipping fantasies.”
Soap let out a startled laugh, hand over his mouth. “Jesus Christ-are you really bringing that up again? You know that was a joke, right?”
“You keep bringing it up, Johnny. Starting to think you want it.”
Soap wheezed a little, shaking his head. “God, always had a bet that you were a kinky mother fucker, mask and all”
Simon huffed a short laugh, reaching out without a word-his eyes flicking to the cigarette between Soap’s lips. A silent ask.
Soap passed him the pack, watching as Simon plucked one with his long fingers. Then, calmly, he tugged down his mask so it rested around his neck.
Soap reached for his lighter, but Simon beat him to it. He leaned in, cigarette between his lips, pressing the unlit end against the cherry of Soap’s.
Their faces were close. Too close. Simon's grey eyes locked on his, and Soap froze.
He wasn’t even touching him, and still, Simon dominated the air between them.
By the time the cigarette was lit and Simon leaned back, exhaling a slow stream of smoke, Soap was practically vibrating with tension.
God, he wanted him. So bad it felt unfair.
Simon leaned back against the wall again, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black shirt. Effortless. Casual. Torturous.
Soap swallowed thickly.
“Why are you here, LT?” he asked, quieter now.
Simon glanced at him, eyes unreadable. “I don’t advertise it like you, Johnny. But I’ve got a preference in music too.”
“You like screamo?” Soap asked, genuinely shocked.
Simon nodded once.
“You’re a walking stereotype. BDSM-loving, tattooed metalhead. Next, you’re gonna tell me you’ve got a cock piercing.”
Simon arched a brow.
Something mischievous passed behind his eyes.
Soap’s mouth went dry, breath catching at the arch of Simon’s brow. The silence that followed said too much. Said everything.
“You’re not answering that,” Soap muttered, a nervous laugh slipping out. “Which means I’m not wrong.”
Simon took another drag from his cigarette, exhaled slowly and deliberately. Then he tilted his head, studying Soap in that way that made him feel pinned, flayed open without a single touch.
“I’m not answering,” Simon said, voice low, “because if you want to know, you have to find out.”
Soap looked away, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He hated how easily Simon could rattle him. But fuck if it didn’t thrill him, too.
“Jesus,” Soap mumbled, rubbing a hand over his mouth.
Simon pushed off the wall then slow, intentional steps that closed the space between them. He didn’t stop until he was right in front of him, smoke curling between them. Soap’s back pressed harder into the brick as Simon leaned in, just a little, enough for Soap to feel his body heat through the chill of the air.
“You let that guy touch you like that,” Simon said, voice barely above a whisper, “but you didn’t look at him once the way you’ve looked at me.”
Soap swallowed hard, pulse hammering. “You were watching?”
“I always watch.”
The words made Soap shiver. Simon’s gaze flicked to his mouth.
“Didn’t like seeing someone else on you.”
Soap let out a shaky breath. “Didn’t realise I was yours.”
“You’re not,” Simon replied-but his tone didn’t match the words. His voice was thick, heavy with something else. Something claiming.
Then Simon reached up, just a finger, calloused and warm, and ran it along the edge of Soap’s jaw. Not rough. Not soft, either. Just precise. Measured. Controlled.
“I wouldn’t have let you kiss me like that in a hallway,” he murmured, voice like gravel, “I’d have taken you somewhere you couldn’t pretend you didn’t want it.”
Soap’s breath hitched. The cigarette burned down between his fingers, but he didn’t notice. He couldn’t feel anything but Simon’s presence, crowding into his space with that slow, intentional heat.
Simon leaned in again, lips brushing just past his ear. “You want to forget, right? You want to feel something that matters?”
Soap nodded, barely able to form words. “Yeah.”
“Then don’t waste it on someone trying to mark you like a prize,” Simon said, his voice a growl now, teeth scraping along the shell of Soap’s ear. “Let me show you the difference between getting touched and being wanted.”
Soap let out a low, broken sound, already half gone.
Simon pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “Say the word, Johnny. I’ll take you home right now.”
Soap didn’t move. Couldn’t. That eyebrow raise said more than words ever could, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.
Simon didn’t deny it.
The silence stretched between them, thick and electric. The music inside pulsed like a distant heartbeat, but out here, it was just them. Cold London air. Smoke. Tension so sharp it could split skin.
“You’re messing with me,” Soap muttered, trying to summon a laugh. It came out wrong, low, shaky.
“I don’t mess around, Johnny.” Simon’s voice was low, rough. That same voice that barked orders on the field was now coiled, deliberate. Too calm.
Soap looked away, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure what game they were playing-but Simon knew the rules better than he did.
“You said you wanted to forget,” Simon said, stepping closer, boots quiet on the concrete.
Soap looked up.
“Let me help you with that.”
A pause. A dare.
Soap’s heart kicked into overdrive.
“Here?” he asked, voice catching in his throat. It wasn’t a protest-it was hope, raw and desperate.
Simon’s gloved hand came up, brushing a curl back from Soap’s temple, fingers grazing his cheek. It was gentle, infuriatingly so. Like a warning.
“Do you trust me, Sergeant?”
It was the first time he’d used the rank all night. Deliberate. Weighted.
Soap swallowed hard. “Always Sir”
That earned him a small, crooked smirk, one that never quite reached Simon’s eyes, but hinted at everything simmering just beneath.
“Good,” Simon murmured. “Then be quiet, and do exactly what I tell you.”
Soap’s breath caught, lungs tight, every nerve sparking to life. That voice, calm, unflinching, dangerous, cut right through him.
Simon’s hand slid down his jaw, guiding him gently but firmly until his back was pressed to the brick wall again. His body never touched Soap’s, not yet-but the presence was there. Imposing. Inescapable.
The cigarette slipped from Soap’s fingers, forgotten, and Simons stayed in his mouth.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Simon said, voice calm but commanding.
Soap cursed softly under his breath. Holy shit. His brain short-circuited, the words hitting him low and deep. And then Simon added, tone sharp with knowing:
“Need to help you with everything, Johnny?”
That broke him. Soap’s mouth parted in shock, a flicker of want flashing across his face.
Simon’s hand dropped from his jaw, catching Soap’s wrists before he could think, and pushed them up above his head. His grip locked around them-firm, steady-as he pinned them against the wall with just one hand, like Soap weighed nothing.
He held him there like a prize. Watching. Measuring. He took him in with a slow sweep of his eyes from head to toe. Controlled. Intimate.
It was a stark contrast to what had happened with Kade. That had been messy, urgent-about friction, about forgetting. But this? This was something else. Simon wasn’t just taking. He was claiming methodical, deliberate. Like Soap was something to be unwrapped, learned, and savoured.
“S-sir,” Soap breathed, the word slipping out unbidden.
It caught in the air between them, heavy and sharp.
Simon’s grin was slow, dangerous. “Always knew you got off on calling me that, Johnny. Always a little too eager around me.”
Soap’s breath hitched. His head tipped back slightly against the wall. That shift-the dynamic between them-was hitting like a brick.
He’d had rough sex before. Power games. Men who liked the idea of someone like John MacTavish on his knees. But Soap had always been the one in control, playing the part they wanted.
This wasn’t that.
This was different.
This was trust. A mutual surrender. And Soap leaned into it, willingly, letting Simon guide him.
Maybe that comment about Simon being into BDSM wasn’t so far off the mark after all.
“Haven’t even kissed you and I’ve already gone dumb.”
That twisted something deep in Soap’s stomach. His mouth parted slightly, eyes locked with Simon’s, silently begging for more.
“You’re gonna be so fun to take apart, Johnny,” Simon murmured, voice like rough silk. “So much I want to do to you.”
Soap tried to push back-tried to grab a sliver of control. “Been thinking about it a lot, Si?” he asked, teasing, or trying but the words came out a little too breathless to land the way he wanted.
Simon leaned in, still holding Soap’s wrists tight above his head with one hand. The other reached up and plucked the cigarette from between Soap’s lips, dragging a long, slow inhale. He exhaled over Soap’s head, and Soap watched the column of smoke rise, trailing along the line of Simon’s throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed with the movement.
God. He always thought foreplay was boring-just a warm-up to the good stuff. But this? No one had even touched him properly, and he was already so turned on it hurt. Just a hand on his jaw, fingers around his wrist. Control. That’s all it took.
“You’ve got no idea, Johnny,” Simon said low. “Think I’ve thought about it just as much as you have.”
Soap opened his mouth-about to retort, to say something snarky-but Simon beat him to it. With the cigarette now held between his fingers, his free hand curled around Soap’s throat. Not choking. Just holding. Possessive. Commanding.
Be quiet.
“Oh,” Simon added, tone dark and flat, “and from now on? Sir or LT will do.”
Soap cursed softly, the sound barely more than a hum. He couldn’t help it. All the blood in his body had rushed straight to his cock, painfully hard under the tight denim of his jeans.
Simon stared him down, intense, waiting.
Shit.
“Course, Sir,” Soap finally breathed.
That earned him a nod.
Simon leaned in further, pinning him more firmly with the hand still holding his wrists. The grip around his throat shifted slightly, applying just enough pressure to tilt his head back, just enough to make his back arch from the wall.
“Need a smoke to calm the nerves?” Simon asked, voice slick with something darker than teasing.
Soap blinked slowly, then nodded, licking his lips. “Would be nice, Sir.”
Simon dropped his hand from Soap’s throat, lifting the cigarette again. Soap watched those long fingers wrap around it, watched as Simon took one last slow drag.
But instead of handing it over, Simon flicked the cigarette to the ground at his feet.
Soap’s eyes snapped up-just in time to see Simon move.
He surged forward, pressing their mouths together.
It was hot. Intense. All Simon.
Soap melted into the kiss like butter in a furnace. There were no quips this time, no playful banter. Just submission. Just want.
Simon exhaled slowly into his mouth, warm smoke curling between them as he kissed deep and thoroughly.
Soap moaned, needy and wrecked, at the feeling of being dominated so completely. Of being wanted like this. Controlled. Seen.
And still, they hadn’t even touched properly yet.
Soap whimpered into the kiss, the heat of Simon’s exhale still lingering on his tongue. The smoke, the pressure, the way Simon held him like he owned him, it made his knees weak. Made him feel dizzy in the best way.
Simon finally broke the kiss with a soft sound, lips brushing along Soap’s jaw as he spoke low.
“Got you nervous? Or just need another smoke?”
Soap exhaled shakily, lips tingling. “No, Sir.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Simon’s hand slid from his throat, palm dragging slowly down the curve of Soap’s chest, skimming his ribs, mapping him. His other hand still pinned Soap’s wrists above his head, effortless in its grip. Like holding him there took no effort at all. Like he could do this all night.
And Soap would let him.
The rough brick scraped faintly through the back of his shirt, grounding him, but it was Simon’s solid warmth, the gravity of him, that had Soap burning.
Then Simon’s fingers hooked into his belt loop, dragging their hips flush.
Soap gasped. He was already aching, straining against denim. And Simon? No better. He could feel him, thick and firm, pressing in like a promise. Like a threat. Oh god, he felt perfect, and Soap wanted to see him, feel him properly.
Simon’s lips brushed against his ear, breath hot and slow. “You going to be good for me?”
Soap nodded fast, too fast. “Yes, Sir.”
“Gonna teach you something tonight, Johnny,” Simon murmured, voice low and purposeful. “Got a lot I want to show you, but tonight, we start with one thing.”
He bit the shell of Soap’s ear, sharp enough to make him jolt, then soothed it with a lazy drag of his tongue.
Soap’s head tipped back, eyes fluttering. “What’s that, LT?”
Simon hummed, pretending to consider it. Then his grip shifted, releasing Soap’s wrists only to guide his hands down to rest against the cold bricks behind him.
“Patience,” Simon said, voice firm. “Need to train out all those bad habits you’ve picked up.”
Soap blinked, brain scrambling to keep up.
Simon chuckled, then leaned in and sank his teeth into his neck, not enough to break skin but enough to make Soap gasp.
“Let me be clear,” he muttered. “You’re mine now, Johnny. All mine. I saw you kissing that man, you wished it were me. You were thinking about me, weren’t you? Wondering what I’d be like?”
Soap groaned the truth too raw to hide. He nodded.
“I need an answer.”
Soap gasped out, “Was trying to forget you, Sir. You were driving me mad. Thought a good fuck would clear my head.”
Simon pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, something dark flickering there. “Exactly my point. I’m not like what you’re used to. I don’t get off on fast and rough. If that’s what you want, you won’t find it with me.”
“I don’t want that, Sir,” Soap said quickly, breath catching. “Not with you.”
That earned him a slow smile. One that sent a shiver down his spine.
“Good,” Simon said, voice like velvet over steel. “Then you’re going to learn patience. Learn what it’s like to wait. The pleasure it brings. I’m going to make you feel so good, Johnny, you’ll be screaming by the end of it. But it won’t be how you’re used to.”
Soap felt his chest tighten, not with fear, but with anticipation. He’d thought he knew sex, thought he’d experienced intimacy. But this? This was different. This was precise, practised, and personal. It was Simon sharing something real, and trusting him with it.
He wanted to be good. Wanted to show Simon how much he appreciated being let in.
Soap let out a soft, shuddering breath. “You gonna make me beg?”
Simon smirked, his eyes dark with promise. “If you don’t, I’ll be disappointed.”
Soap swallowed hard, his eyes locked on Simon’s. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. That smirk, dangerous, knowing, curled at the corners of Simon’s mouth.
“Undo your jeans,” Simon said quietly. “But don’t touch yourself.”
Soap hesitated, heart thudding. But his hands obeyed. He fumbled slightly, popped the button, dragged the zipper down. The cool air hit his skin like a jolt. He stayed still, hands by his sides, gaze never leaving Simon’s.
“Good boy.”
God. That did something to him.
Simon stepped forward. His hand slid over Soap’s chest, slower this time, savouring the moment. He moved lower, fingers brushing along the waistband-teasing, not giving.
Soap let out a soft, involuntary sound, half whine, half plea.
“Needy,” Simon murmured. “Didn’t realise how bad you had it for me. All that attitude on base... hiding this?”
Soap’s voice was hoarse. “Didn’t know what to do with it.”
Simon’s thumb pressed just above the line of his boxers. Not quite a touch. Not quite enough.
“I’ll teach you,” Simon said, leaning in, his mouth brushing Soap’s ear. “But only if you keep being good for me.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
Soap’s voice cracked, but he tried again. “Yes, Sir.”
Simon’s fingers hovered just over the open line of Soap’s jeans. Not touching-just there. Waiting. Commanding. Dragging it out like he had all the time in the world.
And maybe he did.
He leaned in again, brushing his mouth along Soap’s jaw. Barely a kiss. Barely contact. “You’re already shaking, Johnny. You that desperate for my hands on you?”
Soap wanted to come back with something smart, something sharp-but all that came out was a breathless, “Aye, Sir.”
That earned a low, pleased chuckle. One that rumbled through Simon’s chest and right down Soap’s spine.
“Then stand still.”
Finally, his hand moved lower. Just a palm, pressing slowly and deliberately over Soap’s boxers. No stroking. No rush. Just weight. Heat. Possession.
Soap gasped, hips twitching forward instinctively, and Simon’s hand didn’t budge. The control in that alone made his knees threaten to give out.
Simon pulled back instantly, fingers wrapping around Soap’s jaw again, firm. “I said stand still.”
The correction made Soap’s knees wobble. He nodded, dizzy from the control, from the patience Simon was bleeding into him like slow poison.
“Good.” Simon’s voice dropped lower. “Now you’re learning.”
He moved even closer, until their foreheads brushed. His hand found Soap again, cupping him gently this time, stroking once, agonizingly slow, through the fabric of his boxers.
Soap groaned, head hitting the wall behind him. “Please…”
Simon smiled, just faintly, lips twitching. “That’s better.”
He didn’t break eye contact, watching every twitch, every sound Soap made with such intensity it was almost too much. It felt like the edge of something sharp and trembling, the peak before the fall. And Simon had barely touched him.
“In gonna touch you properly now,” Simon said, voice low and steady. “But you need to stay still for me, Johnny. Need to keep nice and quiet.”
Soap nodded weakly.
Simon’s hand slid up, fingers curling tight around his jaw. “Don’t get shy on me now. Always got something to say, loud mouth like yours? Surely, you’ve got words for me.”
God. No one had ever spoken to him like that before. Anyone else, Soap would’ve taken a swing. But Simon? Simon saw things in him he hadn’t even admitted to himself. He swallowed hard.
“Can’t hate my loud mouth that much, Sir,” Soap rasped. “You’re just as hard as I am.”
Something flickered across Simon’s face at that, dark, hungry. “Knew you couldn’t keep up the good boy act for long,” he said, almost amused. “Little brat. Don’t worry. I can train that out of you.”
“Jesus Christ, Simon…” Soap’s voice cracked around the name, his mouth falling open at the filthy promise. It sent heat twisting low in his gut, curling into something raw and dizzying. He felt drunk on it.
Simon clicked his tongue, disappointed. “What am I gonna do with you, Johnny? Can’t even follow a simple command.”
Soap grinned, couldn’t help it. He always pushed back against rules, but here, now, with Simon holding him like this? It felt like the safest place in the world to lose.
And maybe… Simon wanted him to fight. Just a little. Just enough to earn what came next.
Simon’s grip tightened, thumb brushing Soap’s cheekbone like a reward, tender, but still in control.
“That attitude again?” Simon murmured, voice low but steady. “You don’t get everything just because you’re eager, Johnny. You’ll earn it, same as everything else.”
Before Soap could answer, Simon’s hand dropped from his face and pressed flat against his chest firmly, grounding, then slid lower, pushing their hips flush again. The friction was maddening. Heat surged through him, raw and electric, as if Simon had flipped a switch somewhere deep inside him.
Simon’s grip shifted with intention, one hand curling possessively at Soap’s hip, the other trailing with devastating precision. Every movement had a purpose. Every touch was a command.
Soap rolled his head back, lips parted, breath catching on the cool night air. But when Simon’s hand dipped under the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around him with slow, practised control, he nearly lost it. A shock of pleasure hit hard and fast, and it took everything he had to stay still, to stay quiet.
But Simon noticed the tension in his jaw, the way Soap bit down on his bottom lip like a lifeline. His strokes were slow, deliberate, mapping every reaction, watching him unravel, like he was memorising how to break him apart, piece by piece.
“I could get used to this version of you,” Simon muttered, his voice frayed around the edges. “Obedient. Breathless. Mine.”
The word hit like a punch. Soap shivered, chest rising and falling fast.
Simon leaned in, his lips brushing Soap’s ear. “My toy, Johnny. That’s what you want, yeah?”
Soap couldn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His body answered for him, arching into Simon’s hand, eyes glazed and pleading.
But just when he was getting close, too close, Simon’s hand stilled, then withdrew, leaving Soap gasping. A desperate sound tore from his throat before he could catch it, and he looked at Simon, dazed and sheepish, already missing the heat of his touch.
Simon’s grin was merciless. “You like that, don’t you? Being my little toy?”
He tilted his head, studying him. “Don’t bother denying it. I saw it, even back on base. The way you looked at me.”
Soap, panting, found a sliver of footing, a grin creeping back onto his face despite himself. “Bet it made you jealous,” he rasped. “Seeing him touching me… like I was his.”
He didn’t get to finish. In an instant, Simon had him back against the wall, a firm hand wrapping around his throat, not squeezing, just reminding. His presence. His power.
“Careful, Johnny,” Simon warned, voice dark and low against his ear. “Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson yet.”
Soap swallowed thickly, pulse pounding under Simon’s palm.
“Still testing me, are you?” Simon said quietly, a rough edge to his voice. “Keep it up, and I’ll make sure you learn the hard way.”
Soap smirked, the heat between them flaring. “Maybe I want to be taught,” he said, knowing full well he was pushing, welcoming whatever came next. More of Simon. More of this.
Simon was moving before he could even blink, a blur of motion. A firm hand pressed down on his back, bending him forward.
“Palms on the wall,” Simon demanded.
Soap obeyed, hands out in front of him, bent over as Simon, in one swift movement, pulled down his boxers. They hit the concrete floor with a heavy thud.
Simon cursed behind him. “Look at you,” he muttered, voice softening as he took a step back, clearly taking in the sight.
Soap felt heat flush up his neck, an odd mix of humiliation and pleasure that only Simon could bring out of him.
“You’re gonna get yourself open for me, Johnny.”
Soap froze, turning his head to look over his shoulder. Simon stood behind him, still fully clothed, and a sudden pang of disconnection and imbalance struck him.
Simon let out a low breath of amusement. “You think I’m that easy, Johnny? You want my hands on you-you earn it. I don’t hand that out for free.”
Soap cursed. Fucking hell. Simon hadn’t been lying when he said this was different from what he was used to. But he loved a challenge.
So, with a silent vow to push Simon to the edge, to test both their self-control, he decided to put on a show.
He kept his eyes trained on Simon, wide, pleading, filled with lust. A silent sign of submission. He took one hand off the wall and brought two fingers up to his mouth, opening wide and slowly pushing them between his lips. He made a show of it, taking them deep, hollowing his cheeks, all while keeping eye contact.
Simon looked at him like he hung the damn moon.
Soap moaned softly around his fingers before pulling them out, stretching the wet digits behind himself. God, he wouldn’t do this for anyone else, only Simon.
He pushed one finger in, feeling the stretch even through the awkward angle. His forehead rested against the wall, his mouth open and panting, making sure his head was turned just enough for Simon to see the whole thing.
“Add another,” Simon said from behind him, voice low and rough.
Soap obeyed, adding the second finger with a low groan, the stretch making his thighs tremble. His breath fogged against the cold brick as he worked himself open, slow and obedient, every move deliberate for Simon’s eyes.
“Good,” Simon said, voice like gravel and thunder, steady and controlled. “But not good enough.”
Soap groaned, pushing in deeper, chasing the burn. He could feel the pressure building-an ache just on the edge of pleasure and desperation. He was panting now, hips rocking back subtly, shameless in the way he showed himself off.
“Look at you,” Simon muttered, stepping forward again, gloved fingers dragging along the dip of Soap’s spine. “So fucking eager. You want to come just from this, don’t you?”
Soap nodded, head still pressed to the wall. “Please, Sir… just need, fuck, need something.”
Simon’s hand wrapped around his cock again, slick and slow this time, dragging up the length with expert control. He leaned in, breath warm against Soap’s ear.
“You think you’ve earned that already?” he whispered, lips brushing against Soap’s temple. “After mouthing off… after acting like a brat?”
Soap whimpered, toes curling in his boots. “I’m trying, Sir.”
“I know.” Simon’s voice stayed low, controlled, not unkind, but firm. A twisted kind of praise, rough around the edges, that made Soap ache all the more.
Simon picked up the pace, his fist firm and precise, the slick sounds of it echoing between the alley walls. Soap could feel it coming-hot, unstoppable, seconds away.
Then it stopped.
Simon pulled his hand away entirely.
Soap let out a choked sound-frustrated, wrecked, desperate. His body shook with restraint. He turned his head just enough to meet Simon’s eyes.
But Simon was calm. Unbothered. And terrifyingly composed.
“That’s enough for now,” Simon said simply.
Soap blinked, stunned. “Wha-?” His fingers were still buried inside himself, his body trembling with the need for more.
Simon tilted his head, voice measured and cool. “Gonna make you mine, Johnny. I warned you, I’m going to train all those bad habits out of you. Make you my perfect toy.”
Soap swallowed hard, the cold night air biting at his sweat-damp skin. Jesus Christ. The fucker really was kinky.
“Everything about this, about you and me, is practice. Discipline. And if you want more, if you want to finish, you’ll do it on my terms.”
Yes please, Soap thought, shivering at the command in his voice. There was something about being seen so clearly-touched like this, spoken to like this, that lit a fire deep in his chest. He had never had someone focus on him like this. Never had someone want him like this.
Simon stepped closer, and Soap let out a shaky groan as Simon gently pulled his own fingers from his body. Then came a low, barely whispered: “Good boy.”
Soap’s knees nearly buckled.
Simon tugged Soap’s jeans back up, adjusted his jacket over his shoulders, each movement careful, grounding, almost tender. The same man who’d just stripped him down with his voice and hands now handled him like something valuable. Something that belonged to him.
“Get yourself together,” Simon said, brushing a thumb under his chin, tilting his face up. “You’re coming home with me.”
Soap blinked again, dazed, skin flushed, heart pounding. He felt drunk on lust, on adrenaline, on Simon. Couldn’t quite tell the difference anymore.
Simon’s eyes didn’t waver. “Excited, are we?” he cooed, dark amusement in his tone. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you exactly what you’ve been begging for.”
He placed a possessive hand on the back of Soap’s neck-firm, grounding, and claiming. Like he owned him.
And Soap? Soap was perfectly fine with that.
He let himself be led out of the alley and into the street, still dazed, still burning, already desperate for what would come next.
✦•⋆•☠•⋆•✦