Pattern Breaker

God Cannot Be Tempted by the Shallow Lust of Man

Soap knew it was a mistake.

He was already confused, thoughts muddled by Ghost's sudden, unexpected proximity to him. As determined as he was to keep himself away and make the eventual departure from the team as painless as possible, he allowed himself a little bit of selfishness in the opportunity to be close to Ghost. To touch him. To listen to the deep grumble of his voice only inches away from his ear. And he was so cold, and Ghost just looked so warm. His arm opening up his chest in an invitation, one so obviously foreign to him, was irresistible.

And with how fucking pent up Soap had been, the idea of any sort of physical contact with Ghost was so god damn enticing. His mouth was practically watering when Ghost's heavy arm settled around his shoulders, his muscles pressing against Soap's own reminding him of the strength Ghost possessed. And Ghost was warm. Burning.

Soap hadn't touched himself to the thought of Ghost since they returned from the cartel compound. And thinking of anyone else proved fruitless and just frustrated him further. Any time he got close to release, Ghost's heavy breath and reminder of the way his body felt crushing Soap against the wall or his bed would slip through and he would immediately stop, groaning, and end up having to step into the shower and turn it to the coldest setting to get himself to calm down.

He was suddenly regretting the accidental self-celibacy. And a little ashamed, for using Ghost's kindness in a way completely bastardized from the way he meant it. Especially after he had gotten choked up looking at how comfortable Alejandro and Rudy looked, with Rudy's head tucked against Alejandro's and the peace on both of their faces as they slept against each other.

Soap was going to get whiplash from how many different directions his emotions decided to turn at any given moment. One second he was drowning in sorrow, wishing nothing more than for the familiar burn of scotch rolling down his throat and soothing his nerves. The next, an insatiable need to find Ghost and get the man to tear him into a quivering mess with his mouth. Then he would hurt, aching, wishing for a moment with Ghost just like this one where they just sat together, close, enjoying each other's presence and existence.

Did Ghost enjoy Soap's presence the same way Soap did his? Did he crave companionship and heartfelt conversation? Did he imagine domestic moments between the two of them, cooking dinner together in a tiny apartment and watching cheesy movies?

Soap had long ago accepted the physical want Ghost felt toward him. Adrenaline ran high in their line of work, and despite how easily Ghost disappeared when he wanted to— Soap knew there hadn't been any opportunity for him to get his rocks off any time recently.

Unless he was getting it from someone else. Again.

Soap tried not to think about that.

With that being considered, was it so bad to indulge in the physical aspects of it? Was it deplorable, after being rejected the way he had, to allow himself to indulge in even the slightest contact with Ghost? Perhaps it wasn't fair. Soap himself had, twice now, rejected Ghost's physical advances. Not before selfishly memorizing the way Ghost's touch felt, of course, but it still happened. Would he be strong enough to keep it purely surface level and somatic should Ghost ever throw himself at him again? If that's what Ghost wanted?

Or would he be weak, just like now, cuddled against Ghost— their contact making him ache in so many different ways, in every way— and give him what he wanted despite Ghost not returning and providing Soap with what he needed ?

His internal ramblings faded into dreams. No nightmares or bad memories. Just thoughts of Ghost. Of Simon. Of the way his breath felt brushing across his face, his throat. The hardness of his arousal, evident against Johnny's own. His mouth, needy and demanding on Johnny's skin...